More Than Fifteen Conversations About Stuff
by Kilonji
Summary: Random conversations in random order. More spoilers than you can shake a stick at. 45. Foreshadowing, Urahara style. 46. A test, a confession, a breakthrough. 47. They sing in unison.
1. Waking Up and Not Knowing Where You Are

**Disclaimer:** Don't own it, just play with it.

**A/N:** I was just thinking about what Ichigo and Rukia talk about when they're not trying to kill each other, and my mind went nuts. Expect more of these.

* * *

She's been in his closet long enough for him to discern she's not a heavy sleeper. This unhappy fact has been drilled into his head via the objects she would hurl at it when he snored. She can hear him through the flippin' closet door. That's how light a sleeper she is. 

She's also an early riser. About the time he's rolling over and scratching himself, she is usually emerging from the closet, glowing like a kitchen utensil that has been soaking in hot water and bleach.

So today, when he awoke, he was shocked to find she was still sleeping. The closet door was closed but he could hear her soft breathing. He hesitated a moment, this is the first time he has watched her sleep. She reminds him of Karin. Tiny, soft, peaceful when sleeping, but the moment those eyes open she will go back to being a holy terror. But it's getting late, and she'll have to get up if they're to get to school on time. So he reluctantly touches her shoulder. No response. "Rukia. It's morning." He shakes her a little. "You have to get up."

Her body goes completely rigid, and in a flash she whimpers and jumps, jerking away from his hand and pushing herself into the deepest corner of the closet. She whimpers again a little when she hits her head against the wall.

_What the hell?_ "Rukia--" and then he gets a look at her face. And it's terrible, because he can see the apprehension etched on it and knows in an instant what's wrong, and he wants to laugh his ass off. But he suppresses that urge and strains to soften his voice. "You must have been sleeping hard," he says. She nods at him, eyes bleary. "Did you forget where you are?"

She blinks and nods with a little grunt.

"Are you okay? I didn't mean to scare you. I didn't know you were so damned skittish."

"I'm not skittish," she snaps, and slams the door in his face.

She's quiet for five minutes. Just long enough for him to run to the bathroom and get her some soap, water and a washcloth before Yuzu comes up to sound the breakfast warning.

"Does that happen often?" he asks.

"What?" Her voice is muffled as she drags the washcloth over her face.

"You wake up not knowing where you are. You seemed almost scared."

"It used to happen a lot," she says. "When I was younger I didn't always sleep in the same place."

"Why's that?"

"What's with the interrogation?"

"I was just curious."

She sighs and opens the door. Fully dressed, her hair a little messy, she sighs. "I didn't have a family. It was just me and a few other kids in the same situation. We moved around a lot because it was dangerous to be in one place for too long." He hands her Karin's hairbrush. "Thank you."

"Would people try to hurt you?"

"Yeah." She tilts her head away, brushing almost absentmindedly. She clearly doesn't want him looking at her eyes. _So_, he thinks, _that's why she jumped._ She doesn't need to tell him anything else.

"Well," he says, "just so you know. I have no problem with you sleeping in my closet and I'd never hit you."

She looks at him, and he can almost swear there's a smile trying to come out. "I knew that already, dumbass." That's why she can sleep so hard. She knows that here, annoying as he is, cramped as the closet can be, is the safest sleeping spot she has ever known.


	2. Juice

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Bleach. Also, no midgets were broken and thrown out the window during the making of this story.

* * *

The juice thing has gotten completely out of hand. Yes, it's convenient that she doesn't eat much. But explaining to Yuzu why, all of a sudden, the family can't keep itself stocked up in juice for more than two or three days after a trip to a supermarket is getting tiresome. 

Not to mention the fact that most of it is 100 sugar and Rukia is damn near bouncing off the walls when she has nothing to do. The fidgeting alone is enough to make him want to snap her in two like the toothpick she is and toss her out the window. "Sit!" he yells at her when she approaches his nightstand (which is _not_ filled with porn, dammit!) with the clear intent of ransacking it. She pauses, looks at him with glazed eyes, and proceeds to open it and noisily dig through it. "So," she says, wicked little ferret teeth gleaming, " You're an ass man, eh?"

"Get out of there, midget."

"I was only looking for a pencil."

"Liar. You're not looking for anything you just want to make me crazy." He's not going to get up. If he does, he really _will_ snap her in half. "Look, Rukia, you need to lay off the juice packs. You're a poster child for Ritalin when you drink more than two a night."

"I've only had one tonight," she says. "I can't help it. They're fascinating."

"Not to mention tasty and sweet," he mutters. "I don't get the fascinating."

"The packages are so shiny and the straws are so cute," she says. "How do they do it?"

He sighs, exasperated. "If I tell you, will you let me be so I can finish my homework?"

She perks right up. "Okay."

"Well," Ichigo begins, taking a deep breath. "About ten years ago the science and development department of a produce seller discovered a special plant that could be milked for juice. You know, like a cow without the manure. So they took a few years doing research, then they figured out how to breed it so it made different flavors. That strawberry stuff you like so much was the last one they came up with. Then they contacted the Outer Space Packaging Guild and had them develop the pouches and straws so the juice wouldn't spoil and would be impossible to open for _dwarf death gods who can't fucking sit still. . ._" Whoops. He almost had her until that last part.

Her lip curls. He barely saw her move, but now she's right at his desk and her eyes are daggers of the sharpest kind. Her hand is wrapped tightly around his math homework, and he could almost swear the paper is smoking. Sixty-two problems it took him an hour to do. "Go get another one and make sure you open it for me," she sneers.

When Karin suggests they set up a juice I.V. for him as he opens the fridge, he groans and bangs his head on the door. Repeatedly.


	3. Siblings

**Disclaimer: ** Don't own, yadda yadda yadda . . .

* * *

"You came up with a school uniform and can't get a lousy pair of pajamas?" Granted, the yellow stripy ones of Yuzu's fit. The problem is they fit all _too_ well. The school uniform is somewhat baggy and obscures her figure. These fit her like a glove. The trousers stop just short of her fine, slender ankles and there's no denying the curve of her waist. He can clearly detect the slight swell of her chest, and her ass-- damn, he doesn't want to go there. The pants make it very clear to him that there is something filling out the seat of said pants and-- _damn_, her ass was becoming a distraction. 

So of course he set out to rectify the situation. "Look, you manage to get all your other supplies, so can't you get some real clothes from wherever you get those, too?"

"I guess so," she says, folding her arms across her chest as if she can tell he's staring at them so hard that if he were the the sun and a magnifying glass were between them, her boobs would be on fire. "They're just kinda comfortable. I like wearing them."

She does have a point. When he was Yuzu's age he loved wearing cotton pajamas too. Especially ones with Batman on them.

"And it kinda gives me an idea of what it's like to have a little sister."

Now _that_ was out of left field. "You want one? I'll sell you Karin dirt cheap." Karin doesn't cook.

Rukia chuckles and sits cross-legged on the floor. "No, really," she says and her smile is luminous. "I'm totally jealous. I kinda had brothers, and now I do have one, but he's. . . kinda upright."

"You mean even stiffer than Ishida?"

"_No one_ is as stiff as Ishida."

"You know what I mean."

"Well," Ichigo scratches his chin. "I dunno. I hardly remember being the only child. I was just minding my own business and then Goat-chin and Mom come up with Colic and Jaundice."

This time she laughs outright.

"That's how I could tell who they were talking about. Karin was colicky and Yuzu was jaundiced. Neither of them were much fun until they were about three."

"And then?"

This time he smiles, and Rukia marvels at how his whole face is caught up in it. Who would have thought it?

"Yuzu is still a little ballerina. She used to dance around for me in this little yellow tutu and I always called her princess. Karin should have been a boy. She was totally into running into walls because she knew it made me laugh. Sometimes it was like everything they did was just for me."

"Was it?"

He pauses. "Yeah, I think it was." And then: "Because after Mom was gone, they were the closest thing I had to having her there. I don't think they really thought about it, but that was how it was. So I sucked it up and was Mom for them, too." He remembers it so clearly, like a video rolling in his mind. He taught Karin to ride a bike. He kissed Yuzu's finger when she slammed it in the door and it had bled so hard she looked ready to faint. He had spent hours letting them take turns with him playing airplane, his back to the carpet and his legs in the air, a tiny girl on her tummy perched on his feet pretending to fly. It was a long time before they were too heavy to swing around by their ankles and he learned to wear the scowl. He lets himself float in those memories so long that when he surfaces he finds Rukia, still in Yuzu's pajamas, she doesn't look the least bit sexy or even _hot_. "So you have an older brother?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Did he ever play airplane with you?"

"Even if either of us knew what it was, I can promise you he didn't."

He smirks. "Do you want me to show you how to play?"

She regards him with a wary gaze. But then his face bursts into that smile again and she just can't tell him no when he looks _so damned cute_.


	4. Shakespeare

**Disclaimer:** I owneth it not.

**A/N**: I wasn't kidding when I named the series. I do have 15 subjects, and I'm going to list the rest in my profile because 1) I think there should be more than 15 and 2) This is getting too damned fun to stop at 15. I'm totally open to suggestions.

* * *

For all the scowling, the rough words and that awesome-as-long-as-it's-not-aimed-at-you kick, he's a romantic at heart. She understood this the instant he landed on the bridge and after dealing gently with Hana, stood before her with that stoic, anti-hero look he's perfected and said, without even looking at her, "I've come to save you." 

Then she called him an idiot and her heart broke again when his face crumpled a little in disappointment. She cared, but she cared more then that not one more scar, scratch or cut appeared on his body for her sake. She willed herself to hate him because it was easier to hurt him that way, and he'd leave. Or so she thought. He didn't go anywhere until he knew, at the very least, she was safe. Thinking about it now makes her smile, not because she's alive and owes him for it (she meant it when she told him she'd never forgive him) but because knowing these things about him makes her feel warm.

But not as warm as seeing his amorous nature in action makes her feel.

Back in the real world again and therefore in school, studying things she has no interest in, Rukia observes Ichigo, in whom she has _too_ much interest.

Ishida is reading Shakespeare aloud because he loves the sound of the English words almost as much as he loves the sound of his own voice, and not to mention Inoue's rapturous (though completely oblivious) accolades. He's blushing like a crazy, and she has no idea that it's not because of the praise but because it's _her_ praise. As Tatsuki snorts her disgust and Sado nods his head to every beat, clearly wondering how it would sound set to music, Ichigo leans back against his favored tree, with his hands behind his head, eyes closed, feigning disinterest. No one else is watching him but Rukia, and she can see him mouthing the words in perfect time with Ishida.

She waits until the walk back to the clinic before she brings it up.

Of course he denies it, as if it is an _affront_ to _everything on the good green earth_ that _he_ should know _anything_ about some old dude writing sappy poetry.

"I saw you," she insists.

"You were staring at me?"

"No, I was staring at the stain on your shirt. Don't change the subject." She balls her hands and sets them to her hips. Battle stance always works with him.

"Okay, okay," he says in that exasperated groan he has. "Sado and I were in the advanced literature class in junior high. We studied all that stuff them. I really liked Macbeth because off all the fights and stuff, so I went looking for more things he'd written. It was kinda interesting so. . . I guess I read it all."

"All of it?" Now this is way too much information. Somewhere in her mind the image of the ferocious death god is now wearing tights and holding up a skull, bellowing _Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio. . _. She can see his eyes searching her face for such thoughts, and knows she has to make it less humiliating to him. "I'm impressed," she says, "that a kid that young could digest all that." She pauses and gives him a smile she hopes like hell is reassuring. "Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me."

He doesn't look all that relieved.

"Really, Ichigo. You trust me, right?"

"Not really." He shrugs. "No, it's not that. You know enough about me, you know. Too much."

"You know plenty about me too."

"Actually, I don't. Rukia, don't you remember what it's like to be a kid?"

"You're not a kid."

"I am to you. Aren't I?"

"You haven't been, for a long time. You're in between." She feels herself blushing and has no idea why. One thing a century and a half has taught Rukia is how to change the subject and avoid getting into things she shouldn't. "I like Shakespeare too, you know," she says.

He cocks his head a little. "I figured you might. What play?"

"Isn't it obvious? _Romeo and Juliet_, you idiot."

"Girls always go for that one." He's smirking at her now.

"Yeah, all tragedy and stuff," she yawns. Her mind catches on something. "I hate how it ended, I know it was inevitable and junk, but that scene where they first talk does me in every time. It's like they're completely run by teenage lust."

"You missed the point."

"Huh?"

"It's not about lust. It's about loving someone so much that they totally cloud your judgment. The fact that Romeo knew she was no good for him and still fought for her. And she fought for him too. Jeez, did you really read it?" He has that look on his face, and she knows she has stepped in something that totally stinks.

So, without thinking, she says, "What's the point of remembering it when I halfway lived it out _with you_?" The minute the words are out she wants to take them back because they're true, and Ichigo is staring at her with shocked eyes because he knows it too. And then he smiles shyly because he knows they've caught each other in something, and it doesn't matter that he doesn't know what.

The bitter irony comes when she blushes and smiles back at him. _Damn romantic_, she thinks happily, _he's infected me._


	5. Wet Dreams and Nonexistent Tits

**Disclaimer:** It ain't mine.  
**A/N:** Reality bites and it's rabid. Consider yourself warned.

* * *

On the rare occasions when it happens, it's at right around three in the morning. He won't even remember the dream. He'll just feel the wetness and whatever bliss there was that caused it runs off like a teen aged perp who's just egged someone's house. If he could catch it he's fairly sure he'd beat the living shit out of it. Especially now, with that _thing_ in the closet who slides the door open and demands, imperiously, "What _is_ it?" 

Apparently his steady stream of vulgar language isn't the stuff _her_ dreams are made of. "Nothing," he tells her, "go back to sleep."

But of course she can't, so she sits up, legs dangling, watching him strip the bed with that damned sympathetic look on her face. Like she knows all about it because she's been alive ten times longer, and she could give him a feminine version of that horrid fucking speech goat-face gave him the first time it happened. But he's not having it. When she looks like she's about to open her mouth, he half snarls at her, "You don't know a thing, so don't even try it."

"You say that like boys have it so bad." Her eyes narrow. "Ask Orihime. Or Tatsuki. Better one night every few months than five nights every month."

He gapes at her because he knows that she knows there's _no possible way_ he would ever ask them, and he's floored that she'd even throw the idea out there.

But he can't let her win like that. He's humiliated and he wants to wallow in it, and she's not taking it from him, dammit. He considers saying it aloud but is seized by the sudden terror his voice will crack when he does, and she'll laugh at him. So he clears his throat and hits her where he thinks it'll hurt most. "Why can't I just ask you? Oh, I forgot. You're the land that puberty forgot, as evidenced by that flat ass chest."

And the A-cups heave. And then puff out. "You're just jealous because you're a walking nocturnal emission while your best friend rolled over one morning a six foot two bass!" And slam goes the closet door.

And they lay awake in the dark sulking ten feet apart, because misery loves company and each one is all the other's got.


	6. Scary Movies

**Disclaimer: ** Nope. Still don't own it. Aiiieee.

* * *

Leave it to that damned Asano to put him in a bad position. "Saturday Night Horror Party! All the blood you can stomach. But that's no problem for us tough guys, is it?" Keigo winks at him. "Mizuiro and Chad are already coming. You can't say no." 

Ichigo likes slasher movies as much as the next guy, and any other time he would have accepted without hesitation. But there was one small problem.

Rukia, already at her desk, was probably listening. Saturday nights had become mandatory hollow patrol nights. Even if they weren't, she probably wouldn't be interested in spending an evening listening to Keigo crowing, "Oh no! I can't look!"

Ichigo sighs and searches his mind for a solid excuse not to show up.

"Why did you tell him no? You've worked hard lately, I'd be a complete ass if I said you couldn't hang out anymore." She waits until lunch to mention it.

"What happens if you get a call while I'm over there?"

She shrugs. "I'll work it out one way or another. We can patrol afterwards." Of course there'd be no way to get out of patrolling. He sighs again and runs to tell Keigo that he will indeed be attending on Saturday. Then he meanders back over to Rukia because Keigo's glee is too much to take for more than three minutes at a time. She is silent for a while, then turns to him, curiosity smudged all over her face. "Do you really like that kind of movie?"

"Of course. The more violence the better. And I like the ones where the killers are all twisted and stuff. It's been good reference for dealing with _you_." He grins at her, and then cringes when she half-cuffs him, smiling back. "But hey, what will you be doing?"

"Nothing, probably," she says airily.

"You'll be in my space all by yourself. I'm not sure I like the idea."

"You're going to hang out with the world's most annoying boy to watch the most frightening movie ever, and all you're worried about is that I'll dig through your hentai manga?"

"I don't own any hentai manga." He knows he's lying, but he also knows that if she calls him on it, his fears will be completely justified. When she doesn't answer, he opens his mouth to ask her what she _really_ has planned but Inoue comes running up.

"Kuchiki-san, I'm so glad you're coming on Saturday! Tatsuki-chan says we can get a few movies and we'll eat a bunch of ice cream and talk about stuff!" Then she stops, gives Ichigo a weird look, and bounds off.

Rukia freezes like a deer in headlights. Then she gives him a sidelong glance, chuckles guiltily, and slinks off. A few seconds later his mind catches up with the current and infinitely more frightening situation.

Saturday night, wedged in between a shaking Keigo and an already passed out and snoring Chad, Ichigo finds himself more terrified by whatever horror is going on at Inoue's house than the movie. When he sneezes, he knows it's all over.


	7. Loss

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Bleach.

* * *

His dream always ends the same. He sees her hands reaching for him. Her voice, which in the daylight he barely remembers, rings out clear over the train passing overhead, laced with some emotion he cannot identify. Then the blinding dark light, a weight on his chest, and there he is, beneath her body, covered in her blood. When he looks at her face, there is a calm kind of surprise on it, as if she half expected this to end some other way. This is when he screams and his body launches forward and he always finds himself in his own bed, soaked in sweat, throat sore from the scream that had carried him from that place to this. 

Rukia told him he would tell her when he was ready and she would not push him to do it anytime before then. And she was true to her word. So now, after so long and harsh a journey, he feels he owes it to her. So here in the dark, too wound up from his nightmare to sleep and too thoughtful to be flippant, he shares with her. This will seal the bond. This will make her real and hold her fast in his world in the way he could not bind his own mother. "When I think of it now, I know she saw the kid on the bank and knew it wasn't real," he tells her. "I wonder if she saw it because of me."

"Maybe," Rukia says. "But does it matter?"

"I don't know." His hands knot. "I wish I knew."

She reaches over and puts her hand on the ball that his hands have made of themselves. "Sometimes when we lose what's close to us, it doesn't have any meaning at all. Maybe because if it did have meaning, it would be a lot worse."

She has never taken that kind of liberty before. When he looks into her eyes, he can see that she is not judging him guilty. She understands his pain. This is when he knows he can be sure of her. Their knotted fingers are as good as a blood oath. To never lose each other's faith.

She knows what he is thinking now. His hands are warm and there is no pressure in them; he is not demanding her fealty. He is asking for her loyalty, and she will give it in exchange for his. She sighs a little and inwardly marvels at how right it feels to have reached this unspoken agreement.

"Before I came here, I was caught up in a fight and killed my superior," she says. She scans him for a reaction, finds no revulsion in his eyes, ans hurls herself onward. "He was kind and a little bit rough, but he was powerful. I liked him a lot. He was possessed by a hollow. I was alone and scared, and he would have killed me if I hadn't killed him first." Even when she reported the event to her brother, she had not denied murdering Kaien. But now was different. The urge to judge herself guilty was gone because she knew she owed Ichigo the whole story, more than any other. And he is listening, with those now soft and sympathetic brown eyes. "There was nothing you could do, you know," he says after a pause. "Sometimes things get out of control and we have to do things we hate. It's just the way it is." His tone is gentle and she knows it is safe to tell it all. Confessing to him will clear her conscience, allow her to truly start anew with him as her compass. And this is what will make him real and hold him fast in her world the way she could not bind Kaien.

Her dream always ends the same. She sees his hands reaching for her. His voice, which in the night she remembers all too clearly, snakes out at her like a knife searing the rain coming down. Then the flooding bright light, a weight on her chest, and there she is, beneath his body, covered in his blood. When she cannot bear to look at his face, but his voice now is his own and it has a serenity to it, as if this was his goal all along. This is when she whispers his name and the sound of her own voice pulls her downward, following the flow of her tears that has carried her from that place to this.


	8. Creepy Guys and Why They're Everywhere

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Bleach, Chad would talk and Uryuu wouldn't be so . . . gay.

* * *

Tatsuki is wholly justified in her protective behavior towards Orihime. 

Rukia knows the whole story because Orihime told it to her. Girls were bullies of the worst kind. That is something that will never change. But what really worries Tatsuki (and is beginning to really worry Rukia) is the looming threat of the male species. Orihime is too dense to realize it, but Tatsuki and Rukia see it all too clearly.

It's the one kid who opens the door for her and then stares at her ass after she thanks him and walks away. It's another kid whose eyes seem to glaze over and veer toward her chest anytime she's within a five foot radius. And a shopkeeper who grabs her hands when she pays for her groceries and praises her for her kindness, gushing for several minutes before Tatsuki taps her shoulder and says, "We really should be going."

Rukia has observed enough of this behavior to understand all of these men are offering Inoue something she has no business getting. And they're all completely creepy.

They're also everywhere.

"Really, someone has to look out for Inoue," Rukia declares. "Living alone like she does, I'm surprised something bad hasn't happened already."

"Huh?" Ichigo hasn't been listening for at least five minutes. He's finally mastered tuning her out and it's a discipline he he uses on a daily basis. "What about it?"

"She can't walk out of her house without all these perverts surrounding her," Rukia says. "You know her. Aren't you worried she might get hurt?"

"Not really. It's not as bad as you think it is," he yawns back. "She can protect herself, you know."

"I know she can defend herself against hollows, but what happens when some dude says the right things and gets too far?" She shakes her head. "Tatsuki can't always be with her--"

He stands, he stretches, and steps toward her. She backs up as far as she can, which happens to be into a corner. He smiles at her. "Let me show you something, you little know-it-all." He takes her hands and raises them, staring down into her eyes. "You've got the tiniest, most delicate hands, you know. Pretty much just like the rest of you."

She gapes at him. As her mind fumbles for words, he begins to rub with his thumbs, slow and deliberate. "Can't think of anything to say, can you?" he asks. He kisses her fingers. When she bites her lip and looks away, he drops her hands and sighs. "Looks like you need watching over yourself. A little compliment and you just fall over. Men are men. We've always been this way. The bottom line of it is that we're as creepy as you let us be. Inoue knows this already because she's had dick thrown at her since she was thirteen. She knows enough not to let it go too far, contrary to popular belief. _You_, on the other hand," he says as he flops onto his bed, "have a little more learning to do." That shuts her up but good and he congratulates himself on this little victory.

Then he curses himself when it dawns on him that she let him be creepy and once you go creep, there's really no coming back from it. At least for a while. "Damn midget," he mutters.


	9. Weakness

**Disclaimer:** Kubo, not Kilonji, created and owns Bleach.

* * *

There are worse things than staring at a blank page, waiting for words that don't come. Right now she can't think of any. The urgency of the message she wants to convey is directly proportionate to her inability to formulate it. _Ukitake-taichou, I am well but injured. Please extend my time limit so that I may heal and return to Soul Society in good condition. . . _ Like that would work. Ukitake is well-known for his determined care for his underlings. To tell him she is injured enough to want to remain in the human world inhabiting a gigai will not allay his concern, but sharpen it. She cringes at the thought of Kiyone and Sentaro breaking down the door, demanding to examine her. If her captain went even farther and involved her brother, however, it would be worse than that. She crumples up the paper, slams the pen on the desktop, and stands, growling. 

Then falls back into the chair, her head reeling. She had spent much of her energy healing Ichigo and neglected the injury she'd gotten herself. The gash on her forehead had stopped bleeding and her panic for him probably drove the pain from her mind. But now it's back with a vengeance. She presses the heel of her hand to her head, eyes squeezed shut, and sighs.

But it isn't a sigh. It's half a sob. This is what gets his attention. "Oi, Rukia," he says, rolling off his bed and coming to kneel in front of her. "What is it?"

She wants to shake her head to ward him off but knows better. She gives him a look through one eye, and an exasperated response. "It's nothing you should worry about." But it is and she knows it. She would not be trying to send the message if she didn't want to buy time. Not just for her, either.

"You have a pretty bad bruise," he says, examining her arm. She opens the other eye and raises the arm to look. And there it is, ugly, purple mark, the sign of her utter powerlessness. Had she been a shinigami still, it would not be there. Had she been a shinigami still, her head would not hurt. Had she been a shinigami still, she would have taken the Grand Fisher out herself and he would not be looking at her with pity on his face. "I _hate_ this," she hisses.

He settles back on his haunches, clearly bracing himself for an outburst. But instead she sighs again. "It's my own fault. I made the choice the put us both here. But . ."

"You hate being weak."

She looks at him, _really_ looks at him. When did the pity become sympathy? And _how_?

"You've never hesitated to throw yourself at whatever danger came your way, power or no power. Do you think I wouldn't understand why, after all this time?" He shakes his head. "You want your power back. I know it was selfish to ask you if I could stay a shinigami a while longer. The longer I keep your power, the longer you have to go on without it. Isn't that it?"

"No," she snaps, "It isn't. You are an excellent death god. I don't regret a minute of this. I just hate feeling so weak, dammit."

She doesn't realize she is tearing up until his hand finds her cheek and rubs it away. "You're not weak, Rukia. You're the strongest person I know."

When she looks down at him, he's smiling up at her, doing his best to be reassuring. And he isn't lying to her. He _believes_. She opens her mouth to say something--thanks, _anything_-- when he slaps her knees and rises. "I'll get you some aspirin."

After he's left her alone she smiles to herself grimly and thinks she'll just leave the message to Ukitake for later.


	10. Fear

**Disclamer:** I don't own it.

* * *

Somewhere between him and her there is a hollow. The spirit energy it throws off is familiar, almost comforting in the fact that it's Stupid Hollow Enemy and not Vengeful Death God Enemy. He is home and he is in control; he can dispatch this thing at his leisure, really. 

Except he can't.

The urgency is pulsing through his veins like hot iron. She's out there. She's alone and still clearly limited in her power, not that she would stop to acknowledge it in a way that would let her call for help. Not his help anyway. And she'll get herself killed.

Somewhere between him and her there is a hollow. He has to kill it. He is aware of the beads of sweat manifesting on his neck, compounding themselves each time he hears it roar. Each time the roar becomes louder, it changes a little and he can tell by its pitch that the hollow is ready to maim, rend, destroy. Perhaps there is a tiny death god in its talons, too shocked and weak to cry out. Perhaps there is blood. Perhaps there is already nothing at all, and he's too late. His head is exploding with each step and he berates himself for not being faster.

Just when he thinks he can't stand any more, he is upon them, and he can feel her spirit energy as well as the hollow's. And it's strong. Before he even sees her he is enveloped in the icy warmth of her battle stance. And, as if she wills it, he freezes.

Her eyes are wild. There's blood on her but it isn't hers. The hollow is bellowing its horror at the sight of its severed arm, on the ground and oozing. Then comes the shadow, half butterfly, half Valkyrie, and her keening cry. The hollow is gone before the tiny feet hit the ground. And she takes a breath, sheaths her sword, looks at him with eyes he could swear he's never seen before. But he knows them. Those were the eyes he saw before he knew her name. But no, it was just a flash, and as she walks calmly toward him she is Rukia again. "You did it," he says when his voice returns.

"Of course I did." It was nothing to her. She does not look back when she walks past him. He numbly falls in line with her and they are quiet. He can't summon the words to congratulate her. He resents what this new muteness means. And he hates his heart that's still pounding, now with an entirely new rhythm. She'll never need him again. She never really did, but that's beside the point. Is it over, and they are separate now? And dammit, why is she bumping into him? He looks down to see her close by his side.

"Wake up, slowpoke," she says. I was half a block away by the time I noticed. Where's your head?"

"On my neck," he growls.

"Then use it," she says. "I can't take out every hollow on my own. Where the hell were you?"

"What difference does that make? You had it all under control."

"Oh now that's uncalled for. Are you worried I'm going to horn in on your business?"

"Heh." She already has. She doesn't need saving anymore. "You have it covered," he hisses. "Forget the shinigami shit now, I've served my purpose, haven't I?"

When she gives him a kick in the pants, he skitters away, startled. And faces her. Ivory skin, violet eyes and sharp little teeth bared in a fierce smile. "I don't need you to protect me, dumbass. I just need _you_." And then she frowns as it dawns on her that she's confessed something she probably didn't want to.

He can't smile back at her and be reassuring. He knows sooner or later his mind will wander over to _how_ she needs him, and the companion piece to that thesis is how _he_ needs _her_.

And that's something he doubts she wants to think about either.


	11. History

**Disclaimer:** KT's possession is nine-tenths of the law.

* * *

Keigo is babbling about something again. Which is nothing unusual, when you get down to it. Then he says something, turns and winks at Ichigo. Which is an undeniably bad sign. Mizuiro and Chad are looking at him now, too. What had he missed? Had he been sleeping? He must have been, because he is immediately alert when he catches Mizuiro's singsong voice. "Kurosaki's the one who has _history_ with women." 

Which is when the tittering starts. Like those birds that hide out in bushes making all kinds of noise because they know you can't see them. Of course that fucking lot would have a bunch of groupies listening to them. Of fucking course.

"Oh yeah," says one of the girls. "Arisawa-chan says she used to beat him up at the dojo."

_True, but still as insulting as hell._

"And Orihime luuuuurves him." _Like that could ever possibly be fact._ He makes a mental note to kick the shit out of Keigo for saying it like it's any of his business. Thank God Inoue isn't there. She'd be mortified.

"And then there's Kuchiki-san, the true captor of his heart," laughs Chizuru. "She's damn near got him whipped."

"They _are_ together a lot," Asano crows. "How suspicious!"

Suspicious, dangerous, and outright insane. They had known each other all of an hour before she stabbed him through the heart. And then she haunted him, pulling out his soul at her whim, alternately berating and cajoling him. Hell of a history. And he suspects it's only going to get weirder. And possibly more painful. His head hurts just thinking about it.

When Rukia wanders up with tree bark on the front of her skirt, he gives her a warning gaze. She looks at him, looks at them, and slinks off before any attention can be directed her way. He supposes this is better than her joining the group and subsequently throwing him under the bus. Which she undoubtedly would.

Of course there's no point in trying to explain things to his classmates. He suffers through the rest of the lunch hour in amiable silence, chuckling at the right comments because the only way to save face in a situation like this is to put on a fake one. Even though they don't know the half of it.


	12. Kamikazes

**Disclaimer:** KT and VIZ are the owners.

* * *

"How did you know?" he asks her. 

"Know what?" She asks absently. She is absorbed in this new thing she found in his closet, abandoned and dusty. She's already reached level 6-2 on Super Mario Brothers 3.

"That I'd let you skewer me to save my family." He rubs his chest unconsciously. Though he's checked himself over a million times and never has found a scar, he can still feel the cold bearing of her sword point on the skin directly above his heart. It seems like only yesterday. "Thinking about it, it seems kinda weird and impossible." He pauses. "You even said you didn't know if it would work and offered it anyway. What would you have done if it didn't?"

"Pretty much the same thing I did when it _did_ work, and all _too_ well, let me remind you. I went with the flow, dammit." Her nimble little fingers are doing a dance, but the fact he can hear the tapping of the keys lets him know he's hit a nerve. Maybe she had no idea, maybe she'd been desperate.

So he presses her. "That really doesn't answer my question."

She lets out an exasperated sigh. "How do I stop this thing?"

"Let me see it."

"Don't turn it off I have that level almost beat," she says as she hands it to him. He feels the side and slides the switch to "off." Then he sets the game boy down and glowers at her when she opens her mouth to protest. "Fine," she says. "I'll tell you. One of my first assignments in the human world was to round up some young pilots and send them to Soul Society. Some of them had been wandering for years, and there had been a lot of reports that they refused to leave when offered." She eyes him. "Are you listening, you ass?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah young pilots go on."

"I managed to get maybe two or three of them before they became hollows. They called themselves _tokkotai_ and they were all . . . strangely beautiful. Even the ones that had become hollows. My captain told me this happens sometimes when someone dies feeling passion."

"Passion?"

"Not hentai passion, you jerk." She rubs her nose indelicately. "They killed themselves. Or got themselves killed _trying_ to kill themselves. The only one I ever had a conversation with said that he'd been a student and volunteered, even though he was his family's only son. I felt badly for him and it seemed like he could tell. He told me not to feel so bad because even though he would miss out, the sacrifice was worth any chance he could give his country victory. His eyes . . . they were completely alive. That's the look I saw on your face when I asked you if you wanted to save your family. You were willing to give up your life for something you loved." The look she gives him now makes his skin prickle. "It was that same passion. I guess it's more than just courage when you think about it. More like absolute faith. Now can I get back to my game?"

He grunts and hands the game boy back to her. She bitches about having to start over and then goes silent, like the conversation never happened and nothing she'd told him even matters. He's actually surprised she even answered him. But now he has other things to think about.

The first and most important of which is if the look she says she saw in his eyes was the same as the look he saw in hers when she'd thrown herself between him and the hollow, wounding herself and making that stabbing necessary to begin with. _It has to have been_, he thinks. Because the bottom line is she was the one willing to sacrifice her life first. And like it or not, she didn't do it for Soul Society and it wasn't a case of a good shinigami just doing her job.

She did it for him.

He wonders if she knows.

* * *

**A/N: **_ tokkotai_: the word the Japanese used to refer to the kamikaze, which most of us know means "divine wind" and referred to Japanese suicide pilots during WWII. The American bastardization the term wasn't re-imported into the language until after the war. Thank God for Wikipedia, because I had no idea. 


	13. Quiet Time

**Disclaimer: ** I do not own Bleach.

* * *

Relief came first. Then concern. Then justifiable fury. The problem was that they came within seconds of each other and none of them left right away. For all the silent praying she had done, all the wandering Karakura town berating herself for not being able to catch his scent, at the end of it all she was surprisingly numb. He had just walked back into the clinic, loudly announced his return, and stood coolly at the door as his siblings and father rushed at him all at once, littlest sister weeping, bigger sister eying him suspiciously, father strangely calm. Perhaps this was just the homecoming he'd imagined. Or hoped for. No one even bothered to ask where he had been. Scratch that. Karin didn't dare. Rukia is certain now that the reason she didn't was because she knew she wouldn't like the answer, if she even managed to get it. They were alike that way, she and Karin. 

But Karin cared enough to keep up the illusion of nonchalance, smiling and suffering through Ichigo tousling her hair as if he'd only been away to camp and not somewhere he wasn't going to admit to having been. It amazes Rukia every time how humans can bury their concerns and simply go on like that.

So she had kept her distance. She had no place in that mess. She didn't have the feelings for it. She kept her distance and her silence through dinner, which of course was Ichigo's favorite dish because Yuzu insisted on it. And it was delicious because Yuzu cooked it, and it was awful because she had no idea what was really going on.

Rukia excused herself as soon as she could, and instead of returning to the room she shared with the twins, slipped out into the cool, comforting night. The night was something she could count on. It asked no questions, it never pretended to want the same things she did, and it never changed. The wind was light, the trees rustled only a little, and Rukia slowly began to relax. This was a nice, high place. She appreciated the flatness of the rooftop of the clinic; she could stand without doing any weird yoga to keep herself upright. It was good to be away from all that was going on below her. It was good to be alone. She could let herself cry now, if she needed to. Even if she didn't know if the tears came from gladness that he was still alive or grief that he was alive and altered. Because that was what it had boiled down to. He had to suppress the hollow, and instead of taking the safest route and turning to Urahara for help, he had sought out those other ones.

He'd broken the law. And she had helped him, in a roundabout way, to do it. If she had never given him her powers, this would never have happened. Her crime had been accepted long ago. It was his transgression that made her throat raw and her eyes burn. She had led him to this.

And because this was her fault, she had no choice but to stand by him. But that wasn't the only reason. There were probably a million others . .

Like the way he had come noiselessly up behind her and settled his jacket on her shoulders. "Idiot," he said, "You're shivering."

"I'm not," she lied. But she did not try to shake off the jacket. He did not move to her side but stood silently behind her, as if waiting for her to scold him. He clearly felt he deserved it. But the words weren't coming. Finally, he he coughed. Loudly. "Dammit," she said through clenched teeth, "Can't I have a little quiet time? To myself? I'm sick of you breathing on me."

He stepped back a little bit. Then seemed to reconsider, coming close enough that she would either have to lean back into him or end up a red stain on the pavement below.

Here was the choice, implied and not spoken. Reject him and crush them both, or accept it and move on. But she had already made that decision long ago. Where he leaned forward, she leaned back.

He let her know he appreciated her choice by absently nuzzling the top of her head with his chin. He was cold too, she knew, and he needed her warmth. In spite of herself, she wanted him to have it. All of it.

"I don't want to talk about it. Where you were," she said.

"I know."

"And I really am pissed at you."

"I know."

"Che. Is there anything you don't know?" She willed her voice not to catch. Not now. Especially not now.

"I don't know much of anything anymore, Rukia."

That caught her. "Is that why you're here?"

"No," he said, letting his hands settle on his shoulders. "I'm up here because you're pissed and cold. I might not be able to make you less pissed, but I can make you warm. Maybe if I can do that little bit--"

"--You can do a little more?" she asked.

"Yeah."

He was altered. But he was also still evolving. And who knew better than she what he could become? Sure, she didn't want to know it. But she did. She also knew that whatever he had changed into, whatever he would morph into later on, he was still Ichigo. The one she saved, the one who saved her, the one for whose sake she'd give up her life. And in the end, the one who was always with her, physically or otherwise. That fact was as constant as the night air she breathed in with him. She shook her head. "Idiot," she murmured. "You're Ichigo. You can do anything."

Including share in her quiet time. Because she wanted him there.


	14. Kissing for Dummies

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Bleach. Dammit.

* * *

Rangiku. Matsumoto Rangiku. It hasn't been long since she burst onto the scene, breasts heaving in the way she likes them to because she knows they get the job done for her. Although actually, even without the breasts she would still be frighteningly capable of bending anything with a penis (with the possible exception of her captain but hey, he's still young) to her will. 

Which is how it starts. Not even innocently, because that word does not exist anywhere in a three-mile vicinity of Rangiku. "Truth or dare, Yumi."

The Pretty One twitters. "Dare," he says. _Shocking_, thinks Ichigo.

Rangiku's lip twitches. "Close your eyes." when he silently obeys, she stands, produces a permanent marker from somewhere on her person, steps up to him and does her worst.

"Matsumoto-san--" Yumi starts.

"Shush. I'm almost done." When she moves away from him, everyone gasps.

Yumi opens his eyes. "What is it?"

Everyone is staring with their mouths hanging. "That's only part of it," Rangiku says sternly. "You cannot wash it off, and you cannot look in a mirror for one hour."

Yumi stares at her in horror. "What does it say?"

"I'm not telling you. No one else tell him either," she says evilly, settling back on her haunches. And of course no one would dare. Yumi's face goes from red to a weird greenish tinge.

But she's done with him. Ichigo cringes as she looks about for her next victim. If he tries to leave now, he risks he contempt of the manly redhead, who is man enough to handle it. If he stays, he's likely to suffer worse than the unfortunate Yumichika, who has to walk home with the word "TEASE" etched on his forehead. His heart skips a beat when she turns her focus to the manly redhead in question. "Renji! Truth or dare."

"I don't want to play anymore," says the manly redhead.

"Too late. Truth or dare," she demands.

"Okay. . . truth."

Matsumoto smirks. "Is it true that your first kiss was. . ." she pauses as everyone -Ichigo, Inoue, and Yumi, who was still green at the gills-- turn to stare at Rukia, who blinks, shocked.

". . . Madrame!"

You could _hear_ the whiplash. Renji seems to be shrinking. But the the bald head is now as red as his hair.

"Hey! That _so_ does not count!" Ikkaku is clearly freaking out.

"Ikkaku?" Rukia is clearly mortified. "All this talk about it being special and you end up playing tonsil hockey with _him_?"

"I swear I didn't kiss him back. . ."

"It's not _my_ fault he's a hot chick when I'm drunk," mutters Ikkaku.

But Matsumoto has already seized on something. Rukia cringes when the sharp gray eyes fall on her. "Are you telling me you and he never. . ."

Now he's interested. Ichigo listens intently.

"Never," Renji and Rukia sigh in unison.

"What kind freak lives in close quarters with a girl and never tries anything?" demands Ikkaku.

"Well. . .we did talk a little about it," Rukia says.

"Back then she was all romantic and stuff so I wanted it to be just right when it happened," Renji adds. "It just never happened."

Neither of them will answer when asked if they _wanted_ it to happen.

"Oh jeez," Matsumoto says, exasperated. "What's there to it? It's not like it's an exact science or anything. Watch."

When she grabs Ichigo all he can do is freeze. "You just look into their eyes"-- she edges close enough that the Tits That Ate Tokyo are grazing his chest-- "open your mouth"-- her own lips are slightly parted--"and--" She looks at him. Hard. His eyes are wide and he can swear the bottoms of his feet are sweating hand grenades. "Good God, another one," she snorts and pushes away from him. "Look guys, this has been fun, but I can hardly get my jollies with a bunch of girls and a couple guys that are terrified of women."

They sit in shocked silence for several moments after she leaves.

Renji stares at his knuckles. Inoue, clearly confused, rises and goes after her. Yumi's wrist is inching to his forehead. Ichigo looks at Rukia. "No," she says, blushing.

"Hey! Who the fuck was she calling a girl?" shrieks Ikkaku.


	15. Exploratory Surgery

**Disclaimer: ** I don't own Bleach.

**A/N:** Of course this one was hard to start. Two weeks of a nightly self-imposed deadline can do stuff to you. I've had a great time cranking these out, and it's been huge to me that you've all responded so well to the brain farts of this old fanatic. I'll always be grateful to you all for coming along for the ride. After this, as you all have probably guessed, I won't be updating this story on a regular basis anymore. But fear not. I doubt any of us have seen the last of this series. For now, anyway.

* * *

It's been seven months and a hundred-fifty years, respectively. The amount of time it took for each of them to reach this moment, this second, is barely a footnote in their complicated history. He thinks of it as the natural progression of things. She thinks of it as something else but cannot name it.

They call it _Playing Doctor_ in their heads and each of them would be shocked and amused that the other came to the same simple term for it, if either of them ever mentioned it. Because they haven't. They're not telepathic and neither has any access to the other's innermost thoughts (stated or non stated) but if it ever happened that would not surprise them.

Ichigo named the game this for the obvious reasons, although this is a far cry from when he was seven and his hands had furtive access to Tatsuki's ankles and armpits. When he thinks of it now, he chuckles at the fact that he knew so little back then that it never occurred to him to touch her in other places. In fact he was ten before it occurred to him that she might not have the same items as he had between his legs. But then, Tatsuki was the only female he applied these qualities to; he had seen Karin and Yuzu's diapers changed often enough to know the difference between boy parts and girl parts.

Rukia knows that her definition of the term is closer to the actual truth. Two sleepless nights and she had finally given in to her fear, entered his room in the middle of the night, and checked him over for injury while he slept. There were always scars a-plenty and, more often than not, new cuts and bruises. As long as each was safely cataloged in her mind, she thought, she could rest soundly knowing he could never die of them. Her only concern was that she could not strip him bare without waking him, so she was never completely finished and thus never completely satisfied. So the night when he stopped her hand as it slid down his arm, she was startled, embarrassed, and relieved. All in that order.

He asked her what she was looking for, and dammit could she be a little quieter, she could have woke Kon.

She calmly replied she just needed to be sure and Kon's stupid ass could sleep though the Apocalypse.

He wanted to know what she needed to be sure of, and she told him. And then was relieved again when instead of laughing at her, he sighed and pushed off his blankets. Then he took his T-shirt off. He stared at the ceiling with a grim determination as she swiftly took her chance and edged in close to look him over, slender fingers grazing each scar. Then she sat back on his bed and began to cry.

He resisted to urge to call her an idiot—_what did she expect, anyway? He's stood eyeball to eyeball with Zaraki Fucking Kenpachi_—and let her dry herself out. When she moved to leave, however, he grabbed her wrist. He didn't need to say it. It was something that had to go both ways to be fair, and she had at least two days on him.

To his surprise she didn't protest. She simply took off her nightshirt. He didn't ask her why she was sleeping in a bra, because the thing he wanted to see was just below it on her torso. When it happened, he thought the Allankar had tried to gut her. But actually it had punched its filthy claw into the bottom of her ribcage and pushed upwards, probably aiming for her thankfully still-beating heart. He had seen the scar before, of course, but he fascinated with it as if he never had. He let his fingertips graze its smooth pinkness, then let them move to her arms. The scars she carried were light and few of them were raised. When he completed his own examination, they stared at each other for a long time without speaking. The line they had crossed had been unthinkable to each of them in the past. But now they had done it and neither of them had burst into flames. It was really something to think about. But not that night. She handed him his T-shirt, put her own shirt back on, and left him.

The next morning, neither of them had to ask whether the other had slept well. They just knew they had.

And now it has become a habit. At first it was only on those nights when there was a battle. And then nights when one or the other would awaken, shaking from a nightmare.

Now it's a nightly game of chicken. The fundamental rules are the same. No speaking and no funny stuff. No lingering over any space more than five seconds. But each successive night, considering the Rule of Equivalence, if previously unshed item of clothing is lost on one, it is also lost on the other. So of course Rukia had to first lose the bra.

And then took a hit on his upper left leg and lost his pajama bottoms. So she gave up hers.

Last night she suffered a wound on her thigh, just above the panty line. Had it only been a scratch, she would have protested. But it was a gash, and he had to identify it. He was mercifully quick and didn't even really touch it. Then he grimaced and pulled off his boxers.

What amazed her was that of all the places on his battered body, this is the only space that is smooth and white as it was on the day he was born. Out of respect for his actions, she did not touch either, and only looked. Then they both sat there, naked and staring at each other.

And slowly realized they were not embarrassed. Where is there to go after that?

Tonight she breaks the rules first. "This is silly, you know." She is cross legged on his bed and fully clothed.

"It wasn't always," Ichigo says. He is also fully dressed.

But they agree that it was always weird. Neither of them can ask if the other wants to stop for fear of offending them. So they are silent for a good long while.

"I was just thinking of what Ikkaku said," Rukia says. "You know, about never having tried anything."

"We both know he's full of shit," Ichigo snorts. "If it happens—"

"—the time will be right," she finishes for him.

They both know they're stalling. They know that the minute they start anything new this game will end, and the one that will replace it will be a lot more dangerous. But it's not out of fear of this that they wait. It's out of love.


	16. Shadowboxing

**Disclaimer:** I don't own it. Duh.

**A/N:** 10000 hits! This calls for an update! Short to show solidarity with the Midget.

* * *

After his ten days with Urahara were done, he was sent home to wait. He doesn't mind the break so much; he feels he deserves the rest and devotes serious attention to doing nothing. But when he can't sleep for the second night in a row, he sits up on his bed, back to the wall, pondering. Pondering. What kind of fucked up term is that? Guys don't ponder. 

But he is.

If she were still here, what would we be doing?

_Out chasing hollows, what the hell do you think we'd be doing?_ Her voice answers. _It's why I was here in the first place, dumbass._

He groans. Even the Rukia of his imagination is a complete harpy.

But fake Rukia, he understands, is better than no Rukia at all. He can ask the questions that have been needling his mind. "Are you sad where you are, Rukia? Are you sorry? Did you mean what you said to me?"

_I did, and I didn't._ _You figure it out._ That's right. She's never been the type to spoon-feed him information. She expects better from him. She'd never give up her life for a worthless thing. And he has worth to her. Of that he is certain. But the bare, cold truth of it smacks him. She never gave a thought of what she was worth to him. She couldn't have. Could she?

_I'm not telling you. There's no point to splitting hairs. What is, is. I chose. I kept my secrets to keep you safe. I told you not to come--_

"But you knew I would."

Figment Rukia is sticking to her story. She cares just enough to act in a way that will keep the lie going. _Let me go_, she says. _Live a long, safe life. I can handle this alone. This no longer involves you._

"But it does. This is twice you've offered up your life for my sake. Did you think I was the kind of punk who didn't pay back his debts? I want you to live. I want you back in my closet. I can't sleep if I can't hear you breathing in there--"

He misses her. "Did you hear that, midget? I miss you."

Figment Rukia, like the real one, has no response to that. It figures, he guesses. He would never say these things aloud anyway.

And caught up in the limbo that holds a million sentiments neither of them would utter, he sits awake, wondering how things got so complicated.


	17. Forty two

**Disclaimer: ** I don't own it. sob

**A/N:** In case there remains any doubt among you, the following drabble proves once and for all that I am a complete geek.

* * *

She says she found the meaning of life in a book she absconded with from the library.

He scoffs at her there's no such book. It's a concept people tons smarter than her have debated and never solved for centuries, and no book could possibly hold such a thing within its pages.

She says not all questions are so complicated that they cannot have a simple answer, and she swings her legs like a child and looks absurd to him, perched on the closet shelf.

He tells her that even if it were possible the answer were that simple, it sure as hell wouldn't be a goddamn _number_. He's taking care not to scream at her to make his point; he knows from experience that screaming automatically loses the debate for him.

She smiles at him and muses that maybe it isn't _that_ number, but it could very well be another integer.

And he gives up with a sigh.

A century and a couple score of years (give or take a decade or two) completely trumps fifteen years when it comes to thoughts of eternity.

* * *

**Post-note:** If you didn't get this, I'm still too ashamed to help you. Sorry. 


	18. Faux Salon Magic

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Bleach. There. I said it.

* * *

Once every month or two, Ichigo will park himself in a chair he's dragged into the kitchen and subject himself to one of his father's haircuts. He says he subjects himself to them because he doesn't want anyone to get the idea he actually enjoys them. In fact, every trip to the barber for him was merely a stroll into his kitchen and into the capable, steady hands of his father. His hair has been the same since he was born: bright orange and cropped short and spiky. It's the way he likes it, and the way his father seems to like it too. The conversation always goes the same.

"How is school going? Any girls I need to know about?" Isshin will drape an old bed sheet around him and move towards the counter where the electric razor sits, plugged in and ready for action.

"Of course not. Don't be an idiot," his son will reply.

The razor begins its soothing hum. "Of course you wouldn't tell me, would you," Isshin will say, sighing dramatically. "My son, almost a man, living a secret life. . ."

Ichigo groans. He's not in a position to punch the old man, so he has to improvise in showing his disgust. His head leans a little as he rolls his eyes, and immediately the large, sterile hands are on either side of his head, willing his neck to be straight. "You don't want a mohawk. I can do that for you if you do," his father semi-threatens.

That's enough to make Ichigo be still. He's still not sure his father would ever do such a thing, but why chance it? "There are no girls," he says. Except the one living in his closet, and she _definitely_ doesn't count as a love interest. The razor glides across the left side of his head, steady as a donkey cutting a furrow. "Why are you obsessed like that?" Then Ichigo bites his tongue. The last time he asked his father that question, he was confronted with "the talk." And he definitely doesn't want to hear _that_ again.

But today the razor stops halfway through its second lap across his head. "It's a sign, you know," Isshin says. "Every year, every day, every second that passes is a piece of time Masaki bought for you." The razor picks up where it left off.

Ichigo lets this sink in as the haircut comes closer and closer to its end. "Pops. . ." he begins to say when the razor switches off and is replaced by a short comb scratching his scalp.

Isshin isn't listening. "Your Mom liked to do this to me. It felt kinda good. Shame I can't do this with your sisters." He combs his son's hair completely through, stepping a circle around the boy that ends with them looking at each other eye to eye. He is crouching very close smiling that devil-may-care smile, and Ichigo knows that to break his gaze would shatter the bubble his father unwittingly created. He wishes suddenly he were seven years old again, and able to give Isshin his smile back and then some. But he can't.

He can only ask another question. "A sign of what?"

Isshin's smile widens. "Ask me again some other time." He runs his hand through the short orange locks and keeps on smiling. "Kid."

_Cryptic old goat_, Ichigo thinks as he rises to help his father clean up the mess. When that is over with, he returns to his room and the midget in his closet. She looks at him quizzically. "Haircut?"

"Haircut," Ichigo says as he tosses himself onto his bed.

"Your dad?" she asks.

"Yeah." He looks up to see her staring at him, eyes narrowed. "What?"

"You liked it," she says.

He blinks at her as if she was speaking to him in another language. Was it that obvious?

She's laughing now. "You look like a kid when you make faces like that," she says.

"It's the haircut," he snaps at her as the gratitude sweeps over him. Gratitude for the haircut, for his father's capacity to mark time by the growth of hair, gratitude for his idiot, goat-chinned father who could make him a boy again in twenty minutes. For a human, Isshin is damned powerful.


	19. Liar

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Bleach.

**Spoilers: **If you have not seen episodes 4 , 5 and 7 through 9 and don't want to be spoiled, go watch them instead of reading this. We'll still be here when you get back.

* * *

After Chad said goodbye to Shibata, they walked him home. Ichigo didn't offer and Chad didn't accept, but they accompanied him to the little room downtown that the large young man lived in when he wasn't out doing something else. 

Rukia was amazed at how clean it was. No clothes strewn on the floor, no dirty dishes in the sink, and the bathroom pretty much defied description in its spartan, spotless way. As the two boys talked softly about everything but what had just happened, Rukia observed silently, taking note of this apparently good friend of Ichigo's. And liked his calm, steady way.

So of course, when she modified his memories just before she and Ichigo left, she felt a little guilty. The guy fell like a ton weight. He was certainly going to wake up with bruises where his arm loudly smacked the hardwood floor. Of course she was sorry about that.

But only a little. It was necessary after all, considering what had happened. "He'll see his mother again," Chad had said, certain of the truth in the statement because Ichigo was supposed to be an expert.

She had to chuckle to herself at the concept of Ichigo being an expert at _anything_ besides good fighting and bad attitude. But Ichigo's words were what saved the boy in the parakeet, and that was all that mattered to her.

When he asked her about how Shibata would find his mother in Soul Society, it dawned on Rukia that it mattered to him too. Especially when she answered the question truthfully. "He probably won't. It's very rare for souls to meet up with loved ones who passed on before them," she told him. And then gasped a little as the blood seemed to flee his face.

And go straight to his hands, which were suddenly balled into fists.

"I told him he'd see her," Ichigo said.

"So? He needed to hear that to move on. You did the right thing."

"But it was a _lie_," he hissed.

"Sometimes we have to tell lies to help people," Rukia said. "If you hadn't told him that, he'd still be a parakeet. When he gets to Soul Society he'll be a little boy again, with arms and legs and everything. It's a step up."

"How? He didn't care about having a body. He just wanted to see his mom again, and when he gets there he _won't_. How could you let me say that?" He wasn't even looking around himself to make sure no one was watching him melt down. He just stood on the sidewalk, eyes almost wild.

"I told you it's what he needed to hear. It's sad, I know it is. But it can't be helped and we can't go back and change what's happened. Why does it matter to you, anyway? You don't even _know_ the kid."

Ichigo blinked and sighed. Were those _tears_? _No_, Rukia shook her head. _It couldn't be._

"No, but I know how he'll feel when he gets there and can't find his mom," he said finally, then turned and walked away. She stood and watched him go. She didn't know why, but suddenly she couldn't stand to be anywhere near him. Her neck was tingling with goosebumps. What _was_ that? She wasn't too good with human emotions, not yet. But she had learned enough to be patient and even though he didn't talk to her until the next day, she took it with a grain of salt and did not push.

It wasn't until later that she understood what Shibata's meeting up with his mother in Soul Society meant to Ichigo: _Everything._


	20. Separation Anxiety

**Disclaimer: **Nope, still don't own it.

**Spoilers: **Post SS arc, nothing serious.

* * *

They stayed out late, until well past dark. Orihime followed close to them as they wandered the streets and Rukia would point out all the places she knew for their sake. They would never see them again, she reasoned with herself, and it made her feel weird in a good way to be the one who knew where she was going. When they returned to the Kuchiki mansion she asked for rooms to be prepared for both of them as her guests. And then she fed them, wondering aloud where Chad and Ishida had gotten off to. 

"Ishida's been hanging around the fourth division compound," Ichigo told her. "Seems they have some interesting sewing equipment there."

"Kyouraku-taichou took Sado-kun somewhere, I think," Orihime yawned between bites.

"Oh," Rukia said, wondering why she was disappointed at their absence. But then she remembered. She would never see them again after tomorrow.

Any of them.

It was Orihime who fell off first, eyes watering and voice soft with exhaustion. Rukia led her to the room that was prepared for her, complete with an old nightgown from she had no idea where, and it seemed the girl was asleep before her head hit the pillow. It figured. She'd had a long day. Rukia smiled at her and closed the door.

When she returned to the open parlor her brother used to entertain guests, Ichigo was just outside it on the open porch, gazing at the pond. "So this is where you live," he said without turning to face her. "No wonder you're staying."

"Jackass. There's more to it than that." She cuffed his head gently, turned, and sat with her back to his. She was not interested in staring at the pond attached to the property that had once seemed a prison to her.

"You'll get your powers back, won't you."

"Of course. It might take a while, but Unohana-taichou says I'll be able to get them back."

She felt him stiffen behind her. "Will you go back to work?"

"Yes," she sighed.

He was glad she could not see his face. For some reason, he wasn't as happy about it as he thought he'd be. And he knew, just _knew_ his lack of enthusiasm was written all over his face. His mind shifted to tomorrow, his house, his family, his own bed. He was ready to return to those things. _That must have been what Rukia felt all along, _he thinks. "I'm glad for you," he lied.

They sat for a long while in silence, feeling each other's breathing through their backs. It was odd, really. All the time they'd spent together and neither of them had any words. Not any that meant anything, in either case. Their time together had been reduced to a hit-and-run.

Rukia leaned back a bit, her head just barely coming to the back of his neck. "I didn't think this would feel so weird," she murmured.

"What?" he asked.

"This. Sitting here with you."

"We've done it a million times," he scoffed.

"And this is the last time," she said, her voice certain and he could not detect any sadness in it.

He was silent for the rest of the night. When he rose and stretched, she looked him over and he couldn't stand the way she did it. It reminded him of the way a character in a movie will look at something in their past. He did not know why, but it irritated him that he wasn't even gone yet and she obviously considered him past history already. When she led him to his room, he did not bid her good night. If she had nothing to say, then neither did he.

_It's just as well_, she thought to herself on the way to her own bed. _He'd probably be annoyed if I acted like I'll miss him._

All the same, she knew she would. The hard part would be learning not to.


	21. Possessing the Secret of Joy

She has a morning song, does Inoue. It caresses her ears when she wakes, hums to her in the shower, and serenades her as she skips to school. When the crescendo sweeps up like the wind in her hair, she will dance to it.

At lunch, her talk will match its rhythm and every ounce of joy in her will be shared with everyone in her presence. And it will carry her home, safe and sound, more knowledgeable than the day before, when the school day is done.

Rukia shakes her head. Okay. So it's more than a morning song. It's an all day serenade. And as crazy, stupid, silly, and absent as Inoue can be, there can be no denying her happiness is infectious. Tatsuki smiles at her. Chad's warmth (not that he's cold at all) becomes palpable and comforting when he speaks with Orihime. Ichigo becomes gentle, and Ishida becomes less distant and wary. This is her other gift.

When Renji tells Rukia how Urahara had dismissed Orihime, she understands but does not agree. Urahara has not spent enough time with Orihime to know, and is perhaps too miserable a creature to comprehend that possessing the secret to joy lends one a strength that cannot be defeated.

"What are you thinking about, Rukia?" Renji always panics when she goes quiet.

She smiles at him, just a little bit. "Music. Let's go find Inoue-san."


	22. Precious Things

Too much had changed.

The Urahara shouten was abuzz with activity. Ururu and Jinta were scurrying about and Tessai's wary eyes followed them. Urahara and Yoruichi were sitting outside, sipping something Ichigo suspected was sake and not speaking for long periods of time. Chad and Renji were only seen coming and going from the underground training room. Neither of them has the time so say much besides "hello" and "goodbye." The other shinigami kept themselves busy as well. Inoue-san and Rukia . . .

Were a strange combination. Inoue with her head held high, eyes cheerfully defiant when Urahara would cast a baleful eye on her. Rukia was more relaxed than he head ever seen her, and when Ichigo arrived back at the shouten, she did not bother to bat an eye. If she cared, it didn't show. Which comforted him, a little. They both knew what was coming and what they needed to do to prepare. But now he had finished and was alone while all the others were still working.

He had never been this lonely before. But he would not admit it. Not even to himself. It took a greater power than that to peer into his heart, to even begin to address the situation.

That power arrived on the heels of Orihime and Rukia.

Rather, flanked by the two girls, speaking to them in gentle, encouraging tones. Then he smiled at Urahara, who was still lounging on the porch with a calmly surprised Yoruichi. "Kisuke-kun," Ukitake said, reaching for a hug. "It's been too long."

"Look at you," Urahara laughed. "Your hair is as perfect as ever."

Ukitake scratched the back of his head ruefully. "Thanks, I think." He looked over at Ichigo, who stood with his arms crossed staring in the other direction. "Kurosaki-kun, it's good to see you."

Ichigo nodded at him and went inside.

He liked Ukitake, really. Aside from being Rukia's kind and caring captain, he was also a fair man, a fellow who stepped forward when others would not to save the life of his subordinate. It was he who presented Ichigo with the hollow sensor that designated him as a temporary shinigami. But why was he here? Didn't they need to be preparing in Soul Society? This certainly wasn't the time for idle social calls.

But no. That wasn't it. It was time for Ichigo to face the fact that he didn't know _what_ the hell was bothering him. But not now. The other shinigami were arriving to pay their respects.

After what seemed like hours of professional niceties and ceremonial acts of welcome were done, the younger shinigami retreated to their own shelters and Ichigo prepared to leave. He tugged at Rukia's sleeve once or twice, but she was busy talking—rather pointedly, he thought—to Chad and Renji about their training. Inoue had withdrawn long ago, saying she was tired. And so Ichigo was alone. Again.

When he stepped outside into the quickly fading dusk, he stopped short.

In the seat that used to occupied by Urahara sat Ukitake, with a black cat in his lap. _That_ black cat. He turned and smiled. "Kurosaki-kun, are you leaving so soon?"

Ichigo's eyes were suddenly attracted to his feet. "Yeah."

"Well it is a little late. I suppose you are tired?"

"No, not really."

"Come and speak with me then," Ukitake said. "There is actual purpose in my coming here."

"You came to speak with me?"

"I came to see if things were alright. I know things are going well for Orihime and Rukia, and Renji and Sado-kun are making progress. But I've heard little about you. That concerns me."

"I'm alright," Ichigo said, sitting next to, but not close to, the captain.

"You've been training with vizored. I could imagine you'd be mentally and physically exhausted."

"I made it through," Ichigo said. "I didn't think anyone from Soul Society would approve."

Ukitake coughed a little. "It's a touchy subject. But it's what you had to do to subdue the hollow within you, isn't that right?"

"Yes," Ichigo admitted.

"You are still a human, and young. We cannot fault you for doing what you need to survive." Ukitake was stroking Yoruichi's head, and the purr that emanated from her was louder than Ichigo ever imagined it would be. She almost even seemed to be dozing. No, she was actually asleep. Her paws were twitching.

"She does that from time to time," Ukitake chuckled. "I wonder sometimes what she dreams about."

"Was it Rukia who told you?" Ichigo blurted.

Ukitake looked at him. "Yes. She was rather calm about it, considering how worried she was."

"She was worried?" Ichigo blinked. Idiot. Of course she was worried. He hadn't even told her where he was going. When he felt her on the edge of the Visored barrier he half-expected her to come barreling in to save him.

But she didn't. And she did not come back to check on him, either.

Ukitake smiled at him. "You are still precious to her, and to Orihime as well. Is that what you were worried about?"

"Even as I am now? A Visored? They told me shinigami don't want anything to do with them."

Ukitake sighed. "It's true. But these are changing times. When I first saw you, you were a ryoka. Now you're a recognized shinigami with the power of a captain. You were instrumental in exposing a real threat. We have known since you came home that we would need to rely on you, and that is no small thing."

"You rely on me now, but what if I lose control?"

"You won't."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Why do you fight? To protect what is precious to you. For that same reason you went to the visored for help. It's a horrifying thing, to nearly lose yourself. But you gathered your strength and each time the hollow has surfaced, you've fought it off. Not just yourself, but for those precious to you. Like Rukia-chan and your friends." Ukitake looked at him again. "We all of us have things—people—so precious to us that we would risk it all for them, don't you agree?"

"Even risk losing them?" Ichigo stared at his hands.

"Even at the risk of loss." Ukitake gazed downward at the purring mass of fur in his lap. "That battle will come, and soon. Until then, don't be caught up in your fear. You're still young and there's little time to waste. Rukia-chan will speak to you when she's ready. Live, find your little joys in your precious things and try to be happy."

"Is slightly less than pissy acceptable, Taichou?" Rukia leaned, arms folded, in the doorway. "I'm not sure he's capable of more than that."

"Ah, Rukia-chan have you been eavesdropping?" Ukitake was trying to sound stern.

She looked at Ichigo. A faint smile played on her lips. "I heard enough. Ichigo, are you ready to go?"

Ichigo nodded and followed her onto the sidewalk. When he looked back at Ukitake, he saw the older man rubbing Yoruichi's belly with a wide grin on his face. "You always did that the best, Juu-chan," the cat rumbled rapturously.

Rukia was laughing. "They make an odd couple."

Ichigo stopped. "You're kidding, right?"

"Idiot, don't be so dense." She gazed at him. "You look good." And then, after a long pause, "I'm glad you're back."

He wasn't about to smile at her. But as they walked slowly forward in the chilly autumn air, he said, "I'm glad you're glad."

And that was all they really needed to say.


	23. Pulse

On that night, he became aware of her.

It was strange at first, a buzzing that wasn't in his ear where it was supposed to be. It settled more in the back of his throat and reminded him, oddly, of wind chimes. It was several minutes before that lulling sensation of not being completely alone somehow made a connection for him, and he knew it was Rukia. The same Rukia who was supposedly asleep in the room she shared with his sisters.

He first thought it somewhat trivial. All normal shinigami could sense reiatsu. It was something that could wait till morning for further exploration.

But then he felt the second. This one he felt more in his chest, a thready tattoo close to his heart. It was faint, but it beat steady as a drum, as calm and confident as Karin on a soccer field--

_Karin._ Karin's reiatsu. Was this strong.

Before he was fully aware of what he was doing, he was easing open the door to the girls' room as quietly as he could and slipping in.

Yuzu was on her stomach, her breathing still that of a smaller child. A light snore bubbled from her throat.

Karin's snore was full-blown. She was sprawled on her back, arms flung in odd directions, a tiny bit of drool trailing from the corner of her mouth to her left ear. Her reiatsu flared with every breath she took. Ichigo resisted the urge to lay his head to her chest.

But he didn't need to.

Rukia sat up. Her eyes were bleary, but her voice was calm. "What's wrong?" she whispered.

"I—I feel you," he said.

She blinked at him, pausing for a second as if trying to decide whether or not to be insulted.

"Karin too," he hissed impatiently.

That was all it took. Rukia threw back her blankets. "Meet me on the roof," she told him.

In the cool night air, she set about teaching him what she knew. Which was gone over in minute detail, including extremely crappy illustration. The whole thing had an air of nostalgia about it. "But you've felt it before," she said. "You mentioned you felt Sado in Soul Society."

He had almost succeeded in forgetting about that. There was no way of conveying to anyone the dull horror of feeling that light flicker and vanish, no matter how briefly. "I hated it," he said.

"I know," she said, her voice soft. "I've felt it more than once. Renji.. .Kaien." One survived. "It tends to be the strongest right before it's extinguished."

He stared at her as the full weight of her words settled in his stomach. Her eyes were bright. He could almost swear there were tears in them. But no. She shook her head and he heart snapped shut to him like a pocket watch. "It's not always bad. Close your eyes and just listen for it."

He looked at her skeptically. She frowned. "Just do it."

He sighed and obeyed. And waited. _Isn't this where Kenpachi leaps on the roof, says "There can only be one," and tries to lop off my head?_ he thought. He barely suppressed the chuckle. Then he felt the chilled air on his scalp and listened to the light rustle of the wind in the trees. And it came to him. A roar reminding him of the films of grizzly bears he'd watched in science class. Slow, heavy, relaxed. Sado?

"Sado," her voice confirmed. "Listen more closely. Can you feel it? He's--"

"--listening to music," Ichigo finished for her, voice raised in surprise. Each measured footstep of the bear had rhythm. "He's content."

"Can you feel any others?"

"Can you?"

"Don't be dense." He felt her hands on his. "Clear your mind and reach. This is the only way you'll get used to it. Let it come at you."

He breathed in deep. Smelled the strawberry shampoo smell emanating from her hair. The uncomfortable warmth of her hands on his, and the fluttering feel of a dragonfly on the back of his neck--

Inoue. Warm and gentle.

And the rest flowed through him.

The melancholy weight of heavy hands on piano keys, low and soft, determined for all its faintness. Ishida.

The slinking stealth of a fox, slipping in and out of the curtains of his mind as if trying to avoid detection. Urahara.

And another one, a big dog, not too strong but just strong enough to nearly knock him over with is unwarranted enthusiasm. He opened his eyes to see Rukia, her eyes narrowed and her mouth slightly open as if she were trying to taste snowflakes. "I don't know who it is," she said amazedly.

He narrowed his own eyes, imagined petting the dog. It wagged its tail and barked. "Keigo," he said, only half surprised.

"How did you know?" she asked. "Oh." Because it felt dumb. She blushed a little, aware of the insult.

He half smiled her. "I was thinking the same thing," he said.

She laughed. And it was a real laugh. Before he knew it, he was caught up in it, too. He gazed at her as the wind chime picked up in his throat again. If he were sneaky, he might have kissed her there, on the roof, with the pulses of all those he cared about thrumming in and around him. But no.

"See?" she was still laughing. "It's not all bad."

And she was right. Here was another door she'd helped him to open. Yes, he could have kissed her. She might not even have minded. But he wouldn't. It would only have wrecked the moment.


	24. Living Dead girl

If he picks at her enough, she'll talk to him as a person.

Sometimes.

If he could take her hand, he would trace the winding pattern of her life into her palms, the way he saw her, how he observed the time wearing away at her—no, not wearing away. Smoothing her, sharpening some edges, making the front of her shine and the back of her—well, he says, that's just not for polite conversation.

And then she'll hit him.

And he'll rub his bruised arm and stick his tongue out at her. _Caught you, caught you, caught you._

As if he knows the half of it.

She'll tell him how great she was, before _him_. A perfect shinigami. Excellent in kidou, a skilled tracker and fastidious hunter of hollows. What she will not tell him, what he sometimes touches the edges of before mentally gasping and backing away in slight alarm, is how empty it had all been.

All that was left of her then was her work. She did it well, received praise for it from every avenue except the one she wanted to hear it from. But she carried on because she didn't know what else to do. All she knew was that good, hard work kept her mind from the blood on her hands. And work shaped her existence into petrified wood, unmalleable, untouchable and untouched. She had become little more than stone.

Until that fateful night she stepped onto the desk and into the life of an orange-headed loudmouth.

That's where she'll hit him again, lighter this time. He'll scowl at her, and then she'll thank him.

He'll ask her, For what?

For raising the dead, she'll tell him. And give him that look. And strangely, he'll understand exactly what she means.

* * *

**A/N: ** Seems I'm on a roll lately with the writing stuff. Which, given the cricumstances, is nothing short of a miracle. Never underestimate music as a form of not only relaxation, but inspiration. 

**PS: ** What song inspired this one? The accoustic version of Everlong by the Foo Fighters. I so heart Dave Grohl.


	25. Role Reversal

Any moment, she was going to break.

He didn't know how he knew this. He only knew that he needed to be there when it happened. So he stayed close but not too close, quiet but not too quiet. He wasn't so far gone as agreeing with her every word, which included taut, barely veiled insults in Urahara's direction and self-flagellation that rivaled his own. Mostly he would nod at her. He recalled that it used to be the other way around, he was the mad dog and Rukia was his leash. She knew this too.

She could not tell him how much she appreciated it. They had both taken the news with the appropriate amount alarm. Inoue gone, kidnapped right under the nose of Soul Society's elite. Ukitake delivered the report himself, his eyes telling it all. Ichigo asked all the right questions while she fumed. How long ago? What could Aizen want with her? What could they do?

Ukitake bared his teeth. We wait. Then we take the battle to him. And we take her back. It was that simple.

But not immediate enough for Rukia. She knew now, Ichigo mused, the despair he had known not so long ago when it was she, and not Inoue, in mortal danger. He had been gung ho, too. But now was his turn to calm and talk sense into an angry, frightened shinigami. "How would you get to Hueco Mundo? We can't leave Karakura unguarded," he told her.

"Let the others take care of the city," she said. "I'll go alone if I have to."

"And die like a dog," he said. Which would be the end of _him_, whether she knew and acknowledged it or not.

Her eyes narrowed. She knew he was right.

"Wait," he told her, hands on her shoulders. "We'll get her back."

She stared at her feet.

"It's not your fault," he said.

"That's not it. I can't stand--"

"The thought of her being hurt?" Right now the odds were against that. More likely, she was scared and alone. But that wasn't much comfort to either of them.

"Ichi--" she started, but then the tears were fighting with her. Of all battles, the one against tears was the one she refused to lose.

"We'll get her back," he said again. _Trust me,_ he willed her.

She stared at him and miraculously understood. He knew better than anyone what she was feeling. And she understood that, no matter what, sharing that feeling made it real. Made it bearable.

"We'll get her back," she said. His hands were still on her shoulders. She took a breath. "Together."

"Yes," they said in unison. And somehow the conversation was about more than Inoue.

And they were both perfectly okay with that.


	26. The Upside of Stupid

"He's gonna mess it up."

"Wasn't that the general idea? He goes and asks her, she says something bad or at least smacks the shit out of him, and we all get to giggle?

"Guys don't giggle."

"Wait, wait here he goes."

"That's right, Asano, say something offensive."

"Do it, do it!"

"What the hell is he doing, the chicken dance?"

"He does that when he's nervous."

"Oh."

"Ooooh Matsumoto-saaaan, you're so beauuuuutiful! Can I rub my face in your lov-el-ly bosom?"

"Please tell me he's not actually saying that."

"He must be. Look at the look on her face!"

"OOOOOOOOOHHHHHHH that must have hurt!"

"Reminds me of the last time I got drunk with her. Still have the bruises."

"Shhh here he comes."

"What's wrong, Asano? Did your goddess deny your prayers?"

"Have no fear, friends, she will be mine. Oh yes, she will be mine."

"But Saturday?"

"Maybe not by Saturday. But soon."

Silence follows him as he glides away. The bottom line of it is that Asano has something none of them have, no matter how they laugh: The precious gift of flat-out, brain-dead unawareness. When Matsumoto, impressed with his persistence, agrees to go out with him the next day, the all wish they had it too.

* * *

**A/N:** Once, Ichigo thanked God for making Asano Keigo stupid. I think God gives all of us at least one gift. 


	27. I'll Take You There

During her long recovery, Rukia reacquainted herself with Sode No Shirayuki slowly. This was not her choice. Byakuya had taken time out to assist her, and made his irritation clear when Shirayuki would not cooperate. "You have completely lost control of your zanpaktou," he scoffed at her. "How do expect to return to your position if you are unwilling to try?"

"I am trying, nee-sama," Rukia murmured.

"Come and see me when you succeed." He left her with that.

She sighed. She did not expect him to ever understand. It had been like this with Shirayuki from the beginning, even before Ichigo. Shirayuki was not sociable. Nor was she accommodating. She had hidden herself from Rukia for years, and even when she came forward, it was unwillingly. "I liked it the other way," she said, turning away. "I liked our quiet together. When you speak to me with your lips the words are jumbled and meaningless. I was at home in your mind. It was comfortable there. I don't wish to leave it."

"I don't want to upset you," Rukia said. "But I need you."

The shimmering whiteness of Shirayuki's face glistened. "I know," she said. "I will try. For you."

And try they did. From that moment until Rukia left the academy, they walked together in a world covered in snow. Rukia did most of the talking, if only to remind herself she was not alone. No, that wasn't it. As much as Shirayuki loved silence, Rukia grew to detest it. It reminded her too much of her brother. So she would talk. About anything, usually. Renji, her studies, Byakuya, Rukongai. . . and later Ukitake, Miyako and Kaien. If Shirayuki was listening, she gave no sign.

That was why it surprised Rukia that it was Shirayuki who shook her, later. She was coved in Kaien's blood, just like Rukia. But she was not broken. In fact, she was harder than ever, and for the first time, completely alive. "Get up," she ordered. "We must take him home." Step by step, Shirayuki talked to her, hard but gentle. "Hold yourself together. You know what must be done. I know you have it in you to do this one last thing, Rukia. Be strong for me, and I'll take you there." It was the first time she had ever said her name. And Rukia wiped her tears with her bloody sleeve and took Kaien home. And that night, sitting in her room, Shirayuki stayed awake with her. She didn't say anything else. Neither did Rukia. But Rukia understood this was a turning point. Shirayuki, from that point onward, was not an innocent bystander.

Yes, it had been Shirayuki who told her to do it. "Save him," she said. "Save us." And then pierced Ichigo's heart and disappeared. The months Rukia carried on without her in her head flew by, at least when she was in the living world. The size of his zanpaktou startled her; she wondered if it meant that Shirayuki was more at home living with Ichigo than she was with her. But she would shake her head and force the thoughts out of her head. She would not allow herself to be jealous of a human boy, even though she never mentioned Shirayuki's name to him and would become irritated when she thought about it. Should she have told him? Yes. Did she want to? No. In the back of her mind was the idea that knowing Shirayuki's name would make her his. And Rukia could not bear that.

In the end it seemed to make no difference. Sitting in her cell at the sixth squad headquarters, Rukia called out to Shirayuki and received no answer. Which could only mean one thing. Dead or alive, Shirayuki had chosen Ichigo. If he was alive, she would serve him. If he was dead—Rukia didn't even want to consider that. It wasn't until she saw him again, with Zangetsu at his side, that she understood. Shirayuki was not gone. Rukia just lacked the strength to feel her. It was just as well. She was going to die anyway.

Only, she didn't. And Shirayuki did not return. Not soon enough to save Rukia any despair, anyway. When she did come, it was late and Rukia was tired. But Shirayuki was alert, and her face was anxious. She tilted her ivory head and asked, "Zangetsu?"

"With Ichigo, where it should be," Rukia replied.

"I want to see him again," Shirayuki frowned. "He was—different. I enjoyed his company."

Rukia blinked. And then smiled. "We feel the same way," she said. "But we need to be fit to go back. Let's do it together again, and I'll take you there."

For the first time, Shirayuki smiled at her. The two of them nodded at each other and the next day, got down to business. They had people waiting on them, after all.


	28. Real Estate

This is his place.

It is not officially zoned by the city, he has no deed in his possession and there is nothing marking it as belonging to him. But it is his. Close to the water are the hard packed footprints that identify a property line. He carved them out, many years ago, with twenty paces over and over from here to there. This place is his. Long before there was a city here, he believes, this place was made for him.

Tonight he sits cross-legged on his property, facing the still and glass like river. He is waiting for the sadness to come, but it is stubborn; they reach a dull compromise of cold, mute numbness thudding in his heart. He hates it. He wants the grief to come, to go on and on, to remind him once again of who and why he is. But perhaps it has been too long, and his heart has forgotten how. The numbness dissolves into irritation as he feels that presence creep upon him in the dark.

She does not speak as she settles beside him, within arm's reach but far enough away to still feel separate. She stares forward at the water, her face stolid as ever. She might as well be a wall for him to lean against. But hasn't she always been?

"You're shivering. Where's your coat?" he asks her.

"You're not wearing one."

"I'm not cold." Her smallness reminds him of his sisters. This is why he can reach for her, pull her close so she does not freeze, and think nothing of it. She shakes her head. "I shouldn't have come."

"Why did you?"

She is still silent. He is glad he can't see her face. When the mask comes off, as often as it happens, it is always a jolt to him. He can never predict where she's going. It's both thrilling and alarming and it scares the hell out of him as much as it exhilarates him.

"I couldn't stand it," she says finally. "Sometimes, when you hurt. . ." she trails off here. Saying the rest of it will only chain her to him more, and they both know it. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"Rukia, do you . . . believe in destiny?"

"No," she says flatly.

"She wasn't meant to die here, then. She wasn't meant to die for me?"

"No, Ichigo. No."

"And you weren't meant to live for me?"

"Stop it. You're making me want to hit you."

He smiles to himself. Let her think what she wants. He knows very little, but this one thing means everything. Somewhere it was written. _Kurosaki Masaki will give her life to save Kurosaki Ichigo, who will be saved again by Kuchiki Rukia. And then he will save her as well._ It's too absurd not to be preordained.

"Someday I'm going to leave here," she says. "And I won't come back. It won't be because it was meant to happen. It'll be because I choose to go."

"Then do one thing for me."

"What?"

"Leave from here. This spot."

"You're morbid."

"No," he says. "It'll be easier to think of you both from here. I don't want another place to be sad. This place is mine and it's more convenient that way."

"Asshole," she mutters.

He doesn't have a snappy retort, doesn't need one. _If you do this_, he thinks, _it means I created my own destiny. And yours too._

And if he can create it, then he can edit it. _When I come here, I can think of this as the place where you stayed, not just as the place where Mom left_. What doesn't cross his mind is how much that would raise the value of his property. Even though as it is right now, it's already priceless.


	29. End of an Era

"You let her go. Didn't you."

The captain does not bother to glance up from his paperwork, let alone respond.

"You knew she would go and you didn't try to stop her. Why?"

Byakuya lets out an exasperated sigh. "She did not go alone. I did not feed her to the wolves, if that's what you're implying."

"That's not my concern. She is still part of my squad."

"And yet she told you nothing. As oblivious as you are to the thoughts of your underlings, it's a wonder only your vice-captain is dead."

"I won't be baited."

"Then sit, and speak to me in the way a captain should speak, Ukitake."

"I don't need to sit. I only came to say one thing."

Byakuya looks up expectantly. He knew this was coming.

"A shinigami bold enough to cross into Hueco Mundo is enough to be a seated officer. Do you have any further objections?" Ukitake's voice is firm and his face is stern.

"If she wishes it, I cannot stop her. She takes after her sister that way."

"Rukia is not Hisana."

"No, and never was." The nobleman stares at his perfectly manicured hands. "It's the end of something. She is truly gone now."

There is a silence after that. The sixth squad captain can almost feel the waves of sympathy emanating from Ukitake.

But then he laughs. "Yoruichi told me once you were a blockhead. I'm sorry now for not believing her." And then the white haired man leaves Byakuya alone, wondering if he was insulted. Or complimented. A memory of Hisana smiling at him pulls itself to the surface of his mind. He blinks. It has been a long time since she's come to him like this.

Then he smiles back at it, silently thanking his wife for her approval. He wishes their sister well and goes back to his work.


	30. Subliminal Messages

He told himself to forget what Hanatarou told him a long time ago. And hey, a few months can be an eternity to a teenager. Which means, in the end, he has spent half of forever wanting to ask her. "Do you really think you ruined me?"

"Use tact much?" she responded.

"Can't surround an important question in whipped cream and bunnies, you bitch."

"Can't get an answer out of me if you can't be polite," she shot back.

"Well then? Did you mean it when you said that?"

Her lip curls a little. "It doesn't really matter anymore."

"You mean you don't care if you ruined me."

"I mean it's a moot point. You are what you are. Some things are better, some are worse. Why are you ragging on this anyway?"

He blinks at her.

"Oh, God _forbid_ you want some kind of proof your obsession with me goes both ways," she snorts.

He gapes at her, and then it hits him. Not too long ago, on a rainy night, his head in her lap. _Thank you for surviving, Ichigo. _

He smirks a little. "I never said I was obsessed. That's _your_ corner."

Nice bait, but she wasn't biting. She wouldn't let herself. She forces the memory of his face the moment Aizen nearly killed her down, down deep. He looked like he had been gutted himself. She sighs. "I guess I _did_ ruin you a little," she concedes.

"Do you regret it?"

"Not really."

He's crestfallen but determined not to show it. "Oh. Okay."

They are both silent after that. Neither of them know whether or not she's lying. But it is a moot point. They both have the answers they never thought of asking for.


	31. Girl on a Swing

Rukia is an adult.

It surprises him how often he forgets that, stalking behind her, watching, thinking she reminds him of an angry middle school teacher when she hurls back at him, "Quit slacking! It'll get away!"

The same hollow, third time this week. On Monday, just before school, it had been trolling the already-busy shopping district. Rukia insisted it was weak, that it had gotten away by its own dumb luck.

Thursday, it had materialized close to the arcade. Apparently it had found nothing of interest (big shocker there) and meandered off just before they arrived. This time it was somewhere close to the playground, and while Ichigo was shuffling his feet out of disgust at another possible false alarm, the hairs on the end of his neck were on end.

He used to being the twins to this park. The bright memory of being a breathless twelve-year-old pushing two little girls, one after the other, on the swings is still fresh in his mind. He cannot tolerate the presence of a hollow in this place. He wonders if Rukia feels this way all the time, especially when, close to dusk, they arrive at an empty park. Her face scrunches in irritation and she hurls the phone to the ground in a sudden fit of rage.

Only it isn't. She stares down at it for a moment in the lush grass, still a little wet from an afternoon shower. She sighs, kneels, and picks it up. When she turns to face him, her face is apologetic, but mostly disappointed. "I can still feel it here," she says.

_Sure you can_, he thinks. "We'll get it," he says. "It keeps popping up, we'll get it next time."

She frowns and it's the real one, not the scowl she puts on when she feels she needs to clarify herself. He's been around her enough to know the difference. He also knows there's not much he can do about it. She feels little, he doesn't feel at all. Without the sensor they'd both be hopelessly lost. The child in her is not unlike Yuzu. _Why couldn't we get it today? It's not fair._ This would be the point where he'd kneel, smooth Yuzu's hair and tell her, _It's okay, sometimes things don't work out. _ But Rukia is an adult and she will not be soothed that way.

The swings are in the corner of his eye. "Let's sit a little before we go home. It might come back." She only nods at him and walks slowly in that direction. He follows close behind, like he did with his sisters not too long ago. There is some irony here. Neither of the twins are here, but their clothes are. The canvas sneakers are Karin's. The sun dress is Yuzu's. Both fit Rukia perfectly, even though she is an adult. She settles into a swing, clutching the chains, leaning forward as if bracing for a fall.

"Haven't you ever gone home empty-handed after a hunt?" he asks her.

She refuses to answer. "Aren't you going to sit?"

He doesn't reply. By habit, he is behind her, and pushing gently. She twists around, half-angry. "Hey!"

"Shut up," he says. "Just swing."

She quiets, first folding her arms and letting her legs dangle. Second push, third push, she shakes her head. By the fifth her arms are unlocked and her legs are straight forward. By the twelfth she is leaning back, her hair streaming behind her. She is no longer frowning, and her skin is luminous in the moonlight. Her eyes are closed, as is her smile. This is when he knows, by experience, she is creating her own momentum and he steps backward to watch.

She could be one of his sisters.

But she isn't.

She could be something infinitely closer. Maybe. For now she is a girl forgetting her troubles with the help of playground equipment.

He knows Rukia is an adult. Except when she's not.


	32. A Simple Request

Do you remember, Rukia? You called me Nakama. You meant it when you said it, and your eyes were blazing. And I believed you. I'll always believe you. But sometimes I wonder if Nakama does us justice. It fits for Chad and Renji and Inoue and, to some extent, Ishida. But you . . .

I know you've fallen. I know you went down fighting, and whoever it was, you kicked their ass. The dull thud I feel in my stomach right now is so much worse than the one I felt with Chad, though. I could never accept him. Or Renji. Or Ishida. Or Inoue. But you. . .

This is silly. I've got an Espada standing in front of me, and it'll be a bitch of a fight. I should be focusing on him, the way he's staring me down, the way he's narrowing his eyes, the way he probably figures I'll be easy to kill. Taunting me. But you. . .

I will not come to your rescue. We came here with the same goal, and that is Inoue. You'll drag yourself up and move forward, because you know I'd hate you forever if you died here. The same way you'd hate me if I died here. But you. . .

Get up, Rukia. Meet me back at the place where we parted. We'll all go home. You, me, Renji, Chad, Ishida, and Inoue. We'll go home and many years from now our war stories will be glorious. I''ll take care of things here. And you. . .

You'll get up, you'll meet me back at that place, and I'll never have to tell anyone about how I lost you. So damn you, Rukia, get up.

_Please._


	33. Whistling Through the Graveyard

The stand together but separate in the dark. He knows he could wave his arms and just graze her shoulder, that's how far she is from him. She can smell the hint of hairspray (that stuff isn't spiky on its own? Holy shit!).

For a long time neither of them speak. But then she grows impatient. "Shouldn't you be getting back now?"

"Says you. What about you, you little hypocrite?"

"Jesus, can't you say anything nice?"

"All you've ever done is order me around. I'm kinda sick of it."

"I wouldn't do it if I didn't care," she snaps.

"So you admit you care, then?" The smirk has a sound all its own.

She rolls her eyes. "Whatever."

He's still smiling. He wishes she could see it. "Rukia."

"What, Ichigo?"

He reaches because he knows she would never. But she does not protest when his fingers intertwine with hers. "I'll tell you later."

She gets it. "Promise?"

"If you will."

Her hand tightens around his. "We'll see each other again."

"Yeah," he says. He hears her grimly chuckle to herself before she lets go. As they move in separate directions towards the light she thinks, maybe holding hands for real won't be a bad idea when they meet again.

After she kicks the crap out of him, of course.

* * *

A/N: One thing I'll always say about Bleach is that it's always kept me on the edge of my seat. It drives me nuts not knowing what's going to happen. So I guess the title applies to me just as much as it applies to them. 


	34. No Fun Treasure Hunting

"So you have no idea where you left it." Her arms are crossed. 

"Didn't I just say that?" His arms are crossed too.

She rolls her eyes. "How many times are we going to do this?"

"I dunno." He digs at the concrete with his sandaled foot. No doubt if he could, he'd dig a hole and bury himself in it. But wait, he'd have to have a _body_ first.

Her back is already to him and she is walking away in that crisp, _clop clop clop_ pace she uses when she's annoyed. "Where are you going?" he yells after her.

"Where the hell do you think? I'm retracing our steps," she shoots back without turning around.

He crankily stomps after her.

She stops in front of a department store window, complete with a mannequin in a long skirted blue dress with bunnies printed on one of the sleeves. "It's hideous," he says. She shoots him a look. "I'm just saying. . ." he says.

"We caught sight of it here and chased it two blocks down. I don't remember turning any corners, do you?"

"I think we did. Maybe at the pizza shop a couple more blocks down?"

"Hm. Maybe," she is chewing on her thumb. "Actually, I think that dress was kinda cute."

"Hello, I'm missing my body."

"Well, you made a comment, don't I get a chance to counter it?" She's walking again. Luckily her legs are short so she's not too hard to keep up with.

"Rukia, it's getting dark. Don't you think we should just focus on finding me and getting home?"

"We wouldn't have to if you'd just used Kon like I told you."

"But you won't carry him!"

"When I put him in my backpack he tries to feel me up. Besides, he's for _your_ use, not mine, so why should_ I_ always have to carry him?"

"Fifteen year old men don't carry stuffed animals."

"Right," she snorts. He expects her to come back with some lame-ass comment about his manhood, but she says instead, "Here's the corner. Is this where we turned?"

"Yeah, this is where the phone went off—wait. We were closer to the alley." They turn the corner and, more quickly than either expected, come across what they were looking for.

Rukia is nonplussed. "Eew."

"What the hell. . ." Ichigo scrunches up his face in indignation. "Is that what people do when they find an innocent person unconscious in the streets?"

"They probably thought it was a fake. Just get back into it so we can go home."

"Ugh." He climbs out of the dumpster, brushing off week-old lettuce and something else more distinctively ripe. He needs a shower. And a disinfectant. Perhaps he should raid the clinic and bathe in peroxide. . .But all his fingers are here and from what he can tell, so are his toes. It could be worse. Completing his self-examination, he looks up to speak to his partner.

But she's already halfway down the block. "Don't walk too close to me. You stink."

* * *

**A/N:** Just a short respite from the mental mauling that comes with writing _Breaking the Girl_. Hope it was as good for you as it was for me. 


	35. A River In Egypt

"It's not like that." Orihime's voice above the running tap water is the way it used to be, warm and sweet, sweeter than the chocolate Rukia sips as her body settles itself into the futon. She is drowsy and knows it. Orihime has that effect on her: Her heartbeat slows and her mind settles into a comfortable fog. It is only because she feels comfortable that she can ask the impossible, and listen to the sweet lies Orihime wants to weave for her. "You are my friends, Ishida-kun, Sado-kun, Kurosaki-kun. . .You came for me and I love you all. I don't love any one of you more than another." When she comes into the room, settles herself across from Rukia, she is covered in embarrassment and shame.

Rukia feels her brows knit. This was not her intent, she did not want to hurt her. . . "There's no shame in feeling attracted to someone," she says quickly. "You're at that age."

"I know that. Tatsuki-chan says it's what it is to be an adolescent. But I don't feel that way." She pauses, takes a breath. "About anyone."

"Orihime-san." Rukia is suddenly stern. "I will be leaving this place. I have work in Soul Society. I don't know if I'm coming back."

Orihime's eyes widen and the hope Rukia prayed for is there in its full glory. "But you have to come back, Kuchiki-san. Kurosaki-kun will be"—her voice catches— "lonely without you."

"But he'll have his family. His friends. . .and you." There is no sense in dancing around it. This is how it must be.

"But I can't possibly—"

"Don't say it, Orihime-chan. You don't have to replace me. Just be yourself, filling the spot I'll leave vacant. Be the person he can depend on. Be the one he comes to when he hurts inside and out." Rukia's head is hurting now but she pushes herself on. _This is how it has to be. Has to be._ "Talk to him when he needs to listen, listen when he needs to talk. Love him like you always have. He'll need that."

As expected, the great doe eyes are filling with tears. "But Kuchiki-san, I can't—"

"He needs you to." _I_ need you to. "Please do this for me."

"But don't you—"

Rukia cuts her off there, cannot bear to hear it even asked. "No, it's not like that. Ichigo is a human boy. I am a shinigami ten times his age. I could never feel that way." She leans forward because she knows that's all the girl needs to hear to do her bidding. That she was never a rival at all. That there is not now, nor was there ever, a thread from her heart to his. "Please, Orihime. Please take care of him."

Orihime cannot answer with her voice; she merely bows her head and thinks of rivers in Egypt.

* * *

**AN:** I've been mulling this one over for a while. There might be a bigger bone to pick at there, but I'm not sure I'm ready to do that yet. For now, I'll settle for this. 


	36. Thursdays With Renji

Seven o'clock. Thursday.

He can hear the ruckus downstairs long before he feels the familiar reiatsu and his resentment begins to build. Isshin is clapping the visitor on the back like an old friend; Yuzu is already headed toward the kitchen to fix him a sandwich and a cold glass of milk, as dinner was over with long ago. Sometimes he'll demure and she'll cajole him until he accepts leftovers. Whatever the meal is, he's headed upstairs with it as soon as he gets it. He'll kick the door open since he doesn't have a free hand, whoop his greeting and plop down on the bed in the wake of his trail of crumbs and drops of milk.

For another ten minutes it'll be chewing (a sound that reminds Ichigo of nothing so much as cattle) interspersed with the occasional grunt and the rare gulp of air.

While this is happening, Ichigo will pretend to read. _Pretend._

Then the meal will be over. There will be a silence as the visitor lets his meal settle, his dark eyes roving over every corner of the room as if looking for contraband. Then he'll take a deep breath and it'll start. "How have you been, kid?"

Ichigo will murmur an answer, usually "Pretty much the same" and that will prompt a "That's all? Che, do you do anything but study?" or something to that effect.

To which Ichigo will reply that he's too far behind in school and to screw off any more than he already has will result in him embarking on a career in pumping gas or flipping burgers in the future. The visitor's response to that will be to pick his nose or examine his fingernails. Sometimes both at once.

After another short pause there will be another question, the one the visitor's really wanted to ask all along and Ichigo knows this because it's the only consistent thing about him. "Have you heard from her?"

And Ichigo will answer truthfully. "No, I haven't."

"Not a word? Not even a hell butterfly?"

"No letters, no postcards, no text messages, not even a crappy picture."

"Ah." Another pause. And then, today, "When did you get that one?" On the closet door is a particularly horrific picture of bunnies and bears.

"I've _had_ that one. She drew it her first night here." He feels like he's answered this one before, too many times.

"It's shitty."

"I _know_ that."

"Why do you still have it?"

As many times as that question has been fired at him, Ichigo still refuses to answer it. He is careful to keep his face turned away lest the inquisitor notice how red his cheeks are.

After another moment or two of silence, the visitor will rise, stretch and give him a clap on the back. "Oh well. I'm supposed to be on duty right now, might as well shove off. I'll come see you again later."

Ichigo's lip curls. Probably next Thursday. He turns back to his homework and tries a little harder to concentrate.

Safely outside, Renji will make his report. "It's all normal here, taichou. I'm sure there's somethin' goin' on but he's not budgin'. Have you had any luck with her? Ah. . . well. . .if you don't mind my saying, taichou, one of them's gotta give in sometime soon. . .Yes, I understand you didn't just send me here to eat, sir. I'll be back in Soul Society in a few hours. Yes sir. Good night, sir." He'll turn off his phone after that, sigh deeply, and move out. The work is good for him. That way he doesn't have to think about it any more than he absolutely has to. But the thought of going back and stealing that picture does pop into his mind once in a while, though.


	37. Missed

_It's not fair._

He can tell her anything but this. He can insult, cajole, humor and goad her, but he cannot confess. Inoue has been crying again and he knows why. He hates Rukia for making her cry. He can gather by their terse body language what has passed between them in words and emotions and he can tell which is the villain in this story, this contrived and angst-ridden soap opera their lives have become. Inoue hurts because she understands but cannot act. He hurts because he cannot admit he knows, cannot offer her any comfort. He'd only make her feel worse. Which in turn, would make him feel worse, too.

Is this what they fought so badly to save? Is this what she really wants? An existence where although they are safe, they are still far from happy? And she can shut herself off from him without a thought. And she can hand him off like a rag doll to a younger sister to take care of, to love. He is not an inanimate object and he wants to point out that he doesn't need a replacement for Rukia and even if he did, he's sure both he and Inoue would have objections to her sleeping in his closet. This sucks in ways he can't articulate, not just because she has taken it upon herself to make choices for him. She's walking away. Again. And he doesn't understand why. He knows all of the arguments she would make. He is a teenage boy. She is a dead woman more than a century old. They both have lives, loved ones, responsibilities. But the five-year-old in him doesn't understand and doesn't care. Is this what it means to be a grown-up? You can just pick people up and put them down so easily, like rocks on a beach? Or even worse, fling their hearts around like rubber balls or hold them in your hand and squeeze?

He can't ask her because she left him without saying much of anything. "Take care." And she was gone, and he knew the moment she faded from view how unsatisfied he really was. And he stayed unsatisfied, for the days, weeks, hours, months he did not see her. The world kept turning, time kept flowing, and he grew a little taller, a little thicker, a little smarter. And his resentment just built until it became too big; it collapsed like a star and became something hard and cold, a knot in his stomach he feels from time to time when he thinks of her. He never imagined she could force herself to be this cold. And he hates her for it.

So when he wakes to that wind chime feel of her, sees the violet eyes gazing down on him, he wants to strangle her. He could, but he just stares back at her. "What now?"

She is silent, just comes in through the window and stands, staring, arms at her sides. Her face is blank but her eyes are tired. And something else he doesn't think he really sees. He sits up. "What is it?"

"I miss you," she breathes finally and he closes his eyes, feeling the knot dissolve and fade away before he lurches forward and holds her. In the end, he doesn't have to say it at all. She already knew.


	38. Hooked on a Feeling

The first time he remembers feeling it was a lifetime ago, or what feels like one. He, with his arms outstretched, eyes slowly closing as he felt the force of her hand on his chest, thrusting his soul out of his body. By that time he had recovered from the initial shock and the discomfort of the glove. It always felt, for a split second, like she was doing what the teachers liked to call "bad touching," the kind he was supposed to tell someone about. That's how uncomfortable it made him. But before then, he had never seen it coming. The time he had that feeling, as he watched her gain speed and barrel down on him, he anticipated it. Not just waited for it. _Anticipated it._ And his outstretched arms were a signal to her. _ Come and touch me again._

Which she did, over and over, until he got the badge and it was no longer necessary. Well, that's half a lie. There was more than one reason he deliberately forgot Kon. One was that the soul candy, covered in lint and slightly filthy, made his stomach turn at the thought of swallowing it. And even with the convenience of the badge, part of him missed the glove. The glove with her hand in it, which made brief contact with his skin before sinking beneath it.

It dawned on him after he returned home for the second time she'd never have a reason to touch him again. While it wasn't something that should have bothered him, it did. He would never anticipate that feeling again, never, the way a child eventually stops anticipating Christmas morning. Not that he couldn't do it anymore. He just would not have the opportunity. To have her touch him again in that way, or _any_ way.

He cussed himself often for being so stupid about it. Things and situations change, and after all this time of feigning indifference to the opposite sex, here he was thinking _really hard _on one member of it he could never have. It startled him how quickly he made the jump from craving her hand to craving _all_ of her. He could only conclude that puberty sucked in ways he couldn't describe and try to get on with the rest of his life. Because obviously, no one in his right mind would want _that_ one, not on purpose.

But then she came back and now he's all tingly and uncomfortable again, brimming with that feeling. Even without knowing how or why it's there, he savors it. And when sometimes, by either accident or design, her hand brushes some innocuous part of his body, he shivers and looks forward to the day he has the nerve to tell her he really, _really_ likes it. Not just the feeling but the midget that causes it.


	39. Bad Onion, No Biscuit

So. Instead of waiting for her after school, which was customary, he has fled the campus without her. Nevermind the fact that it was raining and the one umbrella between them was in his possession, seeing as she has not yet mastered the art of opening or closing one. Nevermind the fact, also, that Mizuiro, now fully aware of how much older she is, has latched onto her like a barnacle that she lacks the cruelty to remove. "Rukia-chaaaaan," he oozes as he comes up close with his own umbrella, "I'll walk you home."

Rukia sighs. It was easier to shut down Renji and his century of pining than it is to put a stop to this little puppy who fancies himself Casanova. However, she thinks, this might be a circumstance to her advantage. "I'm sorry, Kojima-kun, this must be such a bother to you. But I think I may have left a book behind, just let me run back and get it. . ." She bats her eyes at him.

Mizuiro, not missing a beat, throws up his free hand. "Not at all, my lady, I'll get it for you. Just wait right here. Hold onto my umbrella and stay dry."

So she holds onto his umbrella and stays dry. Unfortunately for Mizuiro, she does not stay right there. She marches home, scowling all the way. Orange-haired ass. Sulking like a toddler. This is all because of one innocent comment the night before, she is sure.

Having almost mastered the intricate chaos of fractions, she looked up from her homework, stretching. And looks at him, relaxed on his bed, reading. Shakespeare, as usual. This time, "Twelfth Night." While she has given thought to his obsession with the bard before, it had never struck her how serious he looked when he was reading. Scholarly, even. Like there were actually _deep thoughts_ going on under that scalp. At which point she chuckled a little.

Okay, she _laughed_.

Which brought a pair of brown eyes up from the slender volume to aim at her, much like heat-seeking missiles. "What's so funny?" Ichigo wanted to know.

"I was just thinking. You're an onion."

"Oh-kay. Huh?"

"You know. Layers.."

"Are you comparing me to a smelly, tear-inducing vegetable?" Now the book was folding forward, the nose and the mouth, which was angling downward at a rapid pace, were visible.

"Oh don't be such a damn drama queen. I was just saying you're kinda deep. Just take the compliment and say thank me."

"I don't thank people for backhanded compliments," he snorted. "Just finish your schoolwork and leave me alone, will you?"

His tone did not invite further comment, and she thought that was the end of it.

But then he didn't wish her good night, he didn't get her up the next morning and he certainly didn't talk to her. The sulking had nursed itself into an outright snit. Over something that he should have been flattered by. Asshat.

When she gets home, she tosses the open umbrella onto his soft, dry bed before climbing through the window. He sits at his desk.

"Well? Fine, I'm sorry I compared you to shrubbery."

Silence.

"Aren't you going to accept the apology?" She puts her hands on her hips, exasperated.

"You didn't think I was deep before?" There is something edging into his voice she has never heard before. His shoulders are shaking, just a little. "Rukia, did you think I was _dumb_?"

A little shock shoots through her body. She'd actually hurt his feelings? How the hell was _that_ possible? She bites her lip. "No, Ichigo, I never thought you weren't intelligent. I know you're street smart and all that. But I never really thought about you being an _intellectual _or anything, and I guess I was being stupid not to realize it." She moves forward, puts a hand on his shoulder. "I think you're brilliant, and I'm sorry you ever thought otherwise."

At which point he turns, and the grin on his face is worse than anything she's seen on Ichimaru Gin. "You," he chuckles, "are the easiest person I know to trip up. God, I _love_ screwing with your head."

She raises a hand to smack him when it occurs to her that she's been proven right. At her own expense, no less. Her arm drops.

"Great," she sniffs, flopping onto the floor.

"And oh yeah. Mizuiro called. He'll be over to get his umbrella. I told him you had an emergency and had to run home, but you're so grateful to him you'd like to take him out for a soda or something."

Rukia can only gaze at him in horror. "You might want to think about the consequences when you take advantage of someone doing you a favor," Ichigo says airily, returning his gaze to his homework. _Yeah,_ she thinks, _he's pretty deep_. Layered like an onion. And apparently rotten to the core.

* * *

**A/N:** Count this as one of those drabbles that ends light years away from where I intended, and _I have no idea why_. 


	40. Good Humor

**A/N:** I'm drowing in the Ren/Tat, dancing around Byakuya and Soifon, and circling Ukitake/Yoruichi like a shark. And yet what does my hopelessly romantic but angst-loving mind produce? More Ichi/Ruki. Here's to old habits dying hard.

* * *

He greets her with ice cream. He has two bars: her strawberry-flavored one clutched in his free hand, and his own, unwrapped, only seems to dangle from his mouth. In all actuality it is clamped tightly between his jaws. He likes the chocolate ones. 

The bar is an invitation and she accepts it, stepping silently inside, thanking him coolly with her eyes. These days, these actions do not need to be highlighted with words. Everything is understood. Taken for granted.

She shows up at just the right times, leaves at just the wrong ones. He has begun to wonder what it was he was trying to prove by moving out of his father's house. It has produced a host of problems, the least of which is a constant sense of being stuck in an inferno that seems only slightly bigger than the bedroom he vacated. The apartment he shares with Chad is cramped and hot, especially this summer, and the air conditioner gave up the ghost by the end of June. Here in the middle of July, turning it on produces a cacophony of noise apparently designed to inform the world that the AC is simply worn out, cannot be of service for even an additional second.

Short of jamming his head into the freezer, Ichigo has run out of ideas for cooling his damp body. Hence the ice cream.

But the upside of the ice cream is the tease. He sits deliberately in a chair when she settles onto the sofa, taking his bar by the stick and examining it. He smirks at the melting milk, cocoa and sugar, licking his lips. Slowly. Even as his tongue runs along the upper lip and grazes the threatened peach fuzz he could have sworn he rid himself of the morning before, his mouth is twisting into a wicked expression. His eyes narrow in what he thinks is a beckoning manner and he raises his eyebrow as he brings the ice cream bar back to his mouth and strokes it seductively with his tongue, savoring his boldness with a soft smacking of his lips.

Rukia tilts her head, munching like a mouse at the top of her own bar, eyes wide but unreadable. She peers at him over it the same way she might gawk at a horrific train wreck: surprised, horrified, captivated, bewildered. If he only knew which one it was.

She's not hiding, not exactly. She has not forgotten how to emote and her expression is not frozen into place. He knows her well enough, he supposes, to estimate her level of involvement, the distance she can be pulled in his direction. On occasion she has been mere millimeters from his nose as she probed and studied him like a pediatrician, hunting for evidence of abuse. But never close enough for him to play the psychiatrist and delve into what it is that makes her hold him away. Even if she comes so often he could swear she cannot pass a week—or even a day—without seeing him. For all the brazenness of his current activity, she has not told him to stop.

The cold on his knuckles draws his gaze from her now. He has gnawed half the bar from the stick, and the remaining half is sliding off. He raises his hand, angles his mouth under it to receive the last of the cool treat. He spies on her from the corner of his eye, gulping the last bite and moving his head again to stare her in the face. His questions are unspoken but obvious. He is no longer a boy and does not want to be treated preciously. His desire to move forward with his life, after all this time, has not changed. Since the day he met her, his idea of the future included her. It is only natural that her function in that future he imagines has evolved, deepened. So he believes, so he believes she knows. Everything else is in place. She is the only part that drags her feet and moves her head suddenly when he wants to touch lips. But only sometimes. He is not impatient, not yet. But he knows he will not forgo her company without an explanation.

She shakes her head. "You wouldn't understand," she says. And then it is back to her ice cream and her silence.

The five-year-old in his heart throws a tantrum. _Then make me_, he wants to scream. But he does not.

She is not speaking, but she is not leaving, either.

He's fought more than a few losing battles. A stalemate is better than nothing. He rises. "I think I'll have another."

Before he gets to the kitchen her voice sails out behind him. "I'm not going to kiss you if your tongue is cold."

He pauses. Frowns a little. Then smirks a little more.

Nevermind the second one. He has better uses for his mouth.


	41. Exchanges, Made and Not Made

Even though Isshin neglected to have it framed, the poster on the wall adjoining the kitchen to the living room is in perfect condition. Masaki's smiling face and affectionate eyes are just as brilliant as the day they were put on display. Beneath it, Karin has abandoned her shoes—a practice that arouses Yuzu's temper like nothing else. "Karin doesn't spend any time looking at the poster," Ichigo muses absently. "She just leaves it smelly love-gifts so she can ignore it without feeling guilty."

"Why should she feel guilty? She's not mocking your mother's memory, is she?" Rukia sits in the only chair at the table which directly faces the poster—Yuzu's chair.

Ichigo shifts his stance and digs his hands in his pockets, still staring at the makeshift shrine. "Who knows what goes on in that brat's head." But he knows better than anyone else.

The day he reopened his eyes, some nine months after their mother had gone, it was late at night. He felt the weight at his side and listened intently to the whimpering coming from the lump nestled into his stomach. His nightshirt was already soaked. "Karin," he whispered, because the lump was too heavy to be Yuzu, "go back to bed." Then he grimaced. He had no right to be irritated. None at all.

She began to shake, his hard words hitting her in ways he never anticipated and causing a reaction he never expected. Sure, she had been a crybaby in the past. But this was different. Karin had always been a shade more stoic than her twin. When she scraped her knees, she would only cry if someone acted as if something was wrong. And something was definitely wrong here. "Karin. Karin," the ten-year old tried to shift, failed, and raised his hand under the blanket, putting it on her head. The child continued to sob. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

"Why?" Her voice was muffled.

"Because I hurt you. Come up here and look at me, will you?"

She quieted for a second, snuffling and heaving as if suddenly she wanted to stop but couldn't. She maneuvered her small body so her head was at his shoulder, and his armpits were quickly soaked with the tears she was now fighting. "You didn't hurt me."

He blinked at her in the dark. Her eyes were dark and shiny, much like their father's. Ichigo twitched a little; he should not have been reminded of that. Isshin's tears were always fake in front of his children. Of the set, Karin was most like him in looks. Perhaps she was always aware of that, when people would stop them as a family and marvel at Ichigo's bright hair and Yuzu's soft eyes. Karin looked nothing like her mother. Ichigo found it strange to be thinking such a thing at such a time. _Poor Karin_. His arm moved to pull her closer. She didn't understand what he had done. He'd caused the death of their mother. That's why she was saying she was unhurt. She sniffed again. "She's not coming back, is she."

"No," he said, stroking her hair.

"It's not fair."

"No," he agreed.

"Did I make her leave?"

He wanted to sit upright at this. His chest tightened. "No," he blurted. "She would never leave us if she didn't have to."

"Then why?" It was half a sob, half an entreaty. She trusted him to tell her the truth. She trusted him to make things right. Even above the father presumably asleep in the next room.

"Everything that lives dies," he said, recounting the words his father had said to him at the funeral. "It's because things die that we are allowed to live. It's why life is precious."

Karin was silent for a moment, as if allowing the words to slowly sink in. "How can something be precious if it can be taken away like that?" she demanded.

"Because that's the way it is," he said, praying she'd accept the answer. She didn't. But what she said next twisted his stomach.

"Then I can't trade with her?"

"Karin—why would you do that?"

She took a deep breath. "Then you and Daddy and Yuzu could stop being sad."

He let his thoughts snake around the idea, guiltily at first. To have his mother back. . .to hold her hand, hear her voice. . .but. . . without Karin? The bile rose to his throat when he realized he would make that trade without a second thought. But no. "Don't ever say that. _Don't ever say that._ Ever again. _Never._"

She was adamant. "I'd do it. I'd do it so she'd know I loved her best."

"I wouldn't let you."

"You can't boss me."

"Yes I can, 'cause she left me in charge. I'm here because she wanted me to stay and watch you. Because your life is precious to her, it's precious to me. You can't trade it. Not for anything." It sounded right, even if he didn't really believe it. But these words at last silenced his sister on the subject. After that night, Karin stopped crying and with his open eyes, he guarded his sisters.

"She's still mad because Mom left us, even after all this time," he murmured.

"That's a long time to hold a grudge," Rukia said calmly. "She was her mother."

"She's not mad at Mom. She's mad at me."

Rukia blinked at him. "I don't get it."

"I doubt Karin gets it, either," Ichigo replied with a rueful smile. Karin loved their mother enough to want to take her place. Ichigo loved their mother enough not to let their family die with her. The day never came when Karin forgave him for loving their mother more than she did. But he was okay with that. Keeping their family together was the least he could do, seeing as if it had not been for him, Masaki would never have left in the first place.


	42. His Rep

"I'll have you know, before you got here, that beast tried to molest Hime." Chizuru.

"It was like he'd been sniffing glue or something! I've never seen him so cheerful, erm, non-irritable." Kojima.

"Was he acting weird? I wasn't paying attention." Kanieda.

"He jumped up from the first floor! I mean, come on, if he's that athletic, why the hell isn't he in a sports club? We need someone like that." An apparent member of the track and field club. Rukia had not bothered to get his name.

"I didn't see a thing!" Asano.

Tatsuki and Orihime were both red-faced and silent.

Rukia sighed.

"Is he coming back to class?" Mahana. Why she wanted to know was obviously a moot point.

Rukia sighed and shook her head. "He went home to get a little rest. It's been a rough day and all that," she added when the cluster of classmates shifted as if they wanted to move in for the kill, crowding closer around her. They had all come at her when she made it back to class. What had happened to Ichigo? Did she know? And if she did, why did she know? Q & A time was over once that question came out of nowhere. She had neither the time nor the patience to explain, even if she were inclined do do so. Turning her head, she counted heads. This was all of them. She pulled her memory modifier out of her pocket and adjusted it when something occurred to her. "Hey," she asked, trying like hell to be nonchalant, "it that his reputation to get a little weird, anyway?"

They all gaped at her.

"I mean, he's never been the type to strike me as normal, anyway," she laughed nervously.

"I wouldn't hang around with a weirdo," Asano said, looking almost thoughtful. "He's a bit of a thug, but he's a cool guy."

"Yeah," Kojima piped in. "If you want someone beat up or something, you call Ichigo. But he's definitely not the type to hit on girls in school—or anywhere else. I don't think he even _likes_ girls." A pause. "I don't think he likes _guys_, either."

"And weird isn't even part of his genetic make-up," someone else said. "I've been in class with him since the sixth grade and I have _never_ seen him smile. Not once. He's never done anything to get attention and usually he keeps a low profile. He's pretty serious, actually."

Rukia blinked. "Ah. so. He's an emotionless, asexual thug?"

They blinked back at her. "Pretty much," someone said. After that, there was a long silence.

Rukia shook her head again, then plastered a silly grin on her face, raising the memory modifier to eye level. "Hey, everyone, want to see something neat?" And then the flash went off.

So she'd saved his reputation. And what a reputation it was. She snickered about it all the way back to the clinic.


	43. Thank Heaven for Little Girls

Perhaps he was simply out of touch. How long had it been? May 6 had gone off without a hitch and both girls were pleased with the dinner, the party, and the birthday gifts. He'd come home for it, of course, and had brought Chad with him—Chad liked Yuzu's cooking and had become something of a musical mentor to Karin. Rukia had come, of course, and Urahara sent his regards along with Jinta. Jinta, little red-headed Jinta with the huge-ass bat.

Had brought Yuzu flowers.

Which would have been perfectly nice had he brought Karin flowers as well. And if Yuzu had not blushed when she accepted them. And if Karin had even noticed enough to be irritated by the slight (she was too busy chatting with Chad). And dammit, Jinta was no longer little. In fact, he was damn near as tall as Ichigo now, tanned, muscled—that Urahara must be a slave driver—and with large, intense eyes.

Intense eyes that were focused on the sweet and lovely Yuzu, who clearly noticed. And was pleased with it. For half a second, Ichigo's eye shifted to his father. The old man needed to throw the little playboy out. Now. But no, Isshin was too busy _flirting_ with Rukia.

Ichigo was too concerned about the footsie being played under the table by Yuzu and Jinta to even care. Even if Rukia was_ flirting back_.

Ichigo rolled his eyes and excused himself. To the bathroom. Where additional horrors awaited him. The shift in the balance of gender power was most evident in the bathroom. Scrunchies. Makeup. Nail polish. A bra dangling from the hamper. Not Matsumoto-size, mind you. But a literal handful. And _eww_, did he just _think_ that? Never mind _whose_ it was.

His sisters were seventeen. And, as Keigo had once put it, "Teenage girls. . .mmmmmmmmmm."

Deciding he had indeed moved out of the house too early, Ichigo scampered back downstairs to do some serious cock-blocking.

Firstly, separating Yuzu and that dirty little redhead. "So. Flowers. How much did those set you back?" he asked Jinta, setting into the seat next to him. The redhead blinked at him.

"Ichigo!" Yuzu was going a little red. "That's kinda rude, don't you think?"

"Well hey, he brought you a gift with an expiration date. You'd think if he wanted to _impress_ you. . ."

Karin snorted. "This from someone who got a _stuffed rabbit_ for his girlfriend. If you're looking to call someone _cheap_, I suggest you think about what the pot said to the kettle."

Chad snickered. Then coughed.

That was all Yuzu needed to mount a full defense. "I thought it was a sweet gesture, thank you." The last two words were aimed at Jinta, who beamed. More like smirked. Like he was certain Yuzu was going to thank him in _other_ ways later.

Before Ichigo could wrap a hand around the little bastard's neck, Rukia had a firm hold on his other wrist. "Karin, did you like the sheet music?" she smiled before shooting Ichigo a look.

Karin squirmed, just a little. "Yeah, it looks pretty challenging. I don't think I've ever tried classical guitar."

"You should be fine," Chad said. "You're ready for something more advanced, anyway. If you have any problems with it I'll help you."

"Oh. That'd be pretty cool," Karin chirped.

Ichigo felt his fists clench. What the hell is _that_? Karin, who had taken a sudden interest in music. Karin, who hated boys once. And who was furtively looking at the oblivious Chad. His eyes shifted to Yuzu. Who was the mirror of her mother. And twitching her little nose at that damed redhead, who was winking at her. Ichigo's eyes then moved to his father's face. No wonder he was smiling. When it's _this_ hopeless, what else can you do?

"You be grateful they were little girls with you, and hope you were man enough to make them into good women," Isshin said, later, in the now-empty den. "You had a hand in that, you know. They're strong because you were, they're smart because their mother was, and hey, they both have pretty good senses of humor. I think that was _my_ doing."

Ichigo groaned. "Seriously, old man."

Isshin sighed. "Were you even listening? Let me tell you this once, and it'll go easier for you. They are almost adults. You need to trust them to make their own decisions and be able to deal with the consequences. If you try to run interference, they'll stay little girls for a little while longer, but they'll eventually become grown women that hate your guts. Is that what you want?"

"No, it's not, but Dad—"

"It creeped up on me, too. I thought I'd have a heart attack when I found out about that damed Jinta, but _Sado_? I might as well have been hit by a truck." Isshin shuddered.

"What did you do about it?"

"Well," the old man scratched his beard. "I talked to them—the girls. Told them how I felt. And do you know what they told me?"

"What?"

"The same thing you did at that age. _Butt out_."

"Oh." The regret was a little tinge.

"Don't look like that. You were a little right. In the end, I trusted your instincts, stood back, and watched. I had your back when you needed it, even if you didn't know it. You have to do the same thing for Karin and Yuzu. Let them become the people we raised them to be." Isshin put a hand on his son's shoulder. "If they need you, they'll let you know. Now go say good night to them and get home. Don't you have class in the morning?"

Dad never stopped being Dad. Wretched old man, Ichigo thought as he trudged up the stairs, pausing outside Yuzu's door (Karin had annexed his own room immediately after he'd vacated it). There was giggling coming from inside. He took a breath and pushed open the door. "Hey."

Three pairs of eyes met his. The violet ones were dancing. "Anyway, I'll see you two later," Rukia said as she rose and walked out.

"Thanks for coming," Yuzu called out to her. Then looked at Ichigo and became immediately less friendly. "Jinta's not under my bed, if that's what you wanted to know," she sniffed.

"No, but he'll be coming through the window later," Karin snorted.

Yuzu threw her pillow at her.

Ichigo gritted his teeth. "Look, I'm sorry."

Both girls looked at him blankly.

"I was an ass. Can you forgive me?"

Karin shook her head. "You know, you have a lot of nerve to act all concerned now."

"I know," he said, looking at his feet.

"And you never come around, so how can you claim to know how thing are?" Yuzu piped in.

"Oh jeez, Yuzu, you'd think the hickey would be plenty of evidence to prove hanky panky," Karin said.

Ichigo looked up, throat closing. "_There's a hickey?_"

_Teenage girls. . .mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm._ He was going to beat the shit out of Keigo when he saw him next. "You're a little more mature than I thought," Ichigo breathed. "Are you sure you're ready for. . . that kind of stuff? You know how babies are made. . .right?" He could feel himself turning green.

Both girls looked at each other and exploded into laughter. "What the hell do you think we are, babies?" Karin guffawed.

"Ichi-nii, you're just like Daddy," Yuzu howled. Then she sailed up to him and hugged him tightly. "We forgive you."

Karin sniffed loudly and hugged them both. "Yeah. Idiot."

"You're not babies. You're my little sisters, so I have to have your backs. . .when you need it."

Both faces beamed up at him. "Arigato, Ichi-nii," they said in unison.

Which like magic, made him feel better. Especially later that night while he was camped out under Yuzu's window.


	44. Threads

"There's something I've been curious about," she says bluntly and he groans. Loudly.

Rukia Kuchiki is interested in rabbits, gothic manga, short-sleeved shirts, and hollows. Not necessarily in that order. There are other things too. Like why his younger sisters, whom he informed her on several occasions are twins, look so different. And why his hair is so bright. "And why are you so pissy?" she demands, rounding out his mental list of Rukia's known ponderables.

He flops onto his bed, sighing loudly. It's late and he's tired. He has no desire to entangle himself into some mystery she does not want to solve herself, nor is he interested in explaining some simple matter to her. It takes forever, no matter how trivial or simple the subject. But he also is aware she will not give him any kind of peace unless her restless mind is satisfied. For someone over a century old, she is like a toddler at times like this. And he's out of practice at dealing with small children. "What is it?" he asks crankily.

"The spirit threads."

"The what?"

"The ribbons. The way you found the cockatiel. How did you know how to do it?" A pause. "_How_ did you do it?"

He raises his head a little. "You can't do that?"

Her face scrunches up. _Whoops_, he thinks, _wrong response_. Her arms cross as they always do when she is being defensive. "No," she admits. "I can't."

He decides not to gloat about it. He knows there is still plenty he can't do either. But this. . . he sits up. "Honestly? I don't really know."

She is pacing, eyes narrow. At this statement she stops and stares. "How can you do it and not know how you did it?"

"Like I said, I don't know." He blinks. It only hits him now how strange that is. "I just wanted to figure out where Chad and the bird were, and I figured the kid was a ghost, so I tried to concentrate on finding him." This is the truth, but not enough to end the conversation. He can tell that just by the way her eyes have narrowed even more and her gaze is even more intense than normal.

"There's got to be more to it than that," she says.

"I really don't know what to tell you," Ichigo says. "I can barely even describe it. I may never even be able to do it again—"

"Show me," she interrupts.

"Right now?"

"Just indulge me, will you?" There is a pleading undertone in her voice.

He sighs loudly as he shoves himself off his bed and onto his feet. "Does it bother you that much that I did something you didn't expect?"

As she settles into the chair at his desk, she snorts loudly. "You're _always_ doing things I don't expect, Ichigo."

"Oh." He closes his eyes, clenching his fists almost involuntarily. What had he done back then, anyway? Oh. Right. His mind cleared and the imprint of the light on his eyelids faded. He listens for a moment, identifying his own breathing and the sound of Rukia's fingers softly tapping on his desktop. Has it been that long already? She's getting impatient. Damned nuisance. But then, right on cue, he feels the tingling on his skin and the hot gust of air. He opens his eyes. Dozens of white ribbons and two colored ones, one scarlet and the other a faded pink, one surround him. He looks at them without interest and then at Rukia, who is gaping a little. She rises from the chair and raises a tentative hand to one of the ribbons. As it curls and waves in her hand, she turns her face to him and he nearly gasps.

"Why does this upset you?"

"I'm not upset," she murmurs, releasing the white ribbon and taking hold of the pale colored one. "This one is mine, I think."

"Why do you think that?" He has understood pink to be a feminine color, but to have that stereotype carry over into the afterlife is a little absurd.

"It's different. I wonder why it looks so beaten up?" And it does. Aside from the pale violet streaks, it's frayed and ripped in some places. She continues to examine it even as it fades completely from sight. Then she sighs. "Thanks, Ichigo."

"Wait. Don't you want to know how I did it?"

"No," she murmurs. "Not right now. Maybe later." She shakes her head. There's obviously something in there, but she will not disclose it.

"Are you okay?" He wonders absently why he is so concerned. But she's not curious about this anymore. He should be grateful this is all it took.

She smiles at him a little and he knows it's another lie. She's bothered by something. "I'm kind of tired," she says. "I'll go to sleep now."

Hours later, Ichigo stares at the closed closet door and the spirit thread that he's pulled from inside. It is delicate and sheer; he can see the silhouette of his hands beneath it as he holds it in his palm with his thumb. He recalls the others were opaque. He wonders if all shinigamis' spirit threads are like this. He hopes they are. Because the alternative—he will not even consider _that_. He releases the thread and it fades, leaving behind tiny white specks that smell faintly of envy.


	45. Chekhov's Gun

"When you emerged from shattered shaft," the shopkeeper mused, "you were wearing a mask." The sunlight cast a shadow over his eyes. "One might say it was an omen."

"What kind of omen?" Although the boy knew the answer to this, somewhere deep down, he wanted to hear it from someone else. But the one person with the words he wanted to hear was not the sort to divulge information easily, lightly, or generously.

"Who knows?" The shopkeeper crouched down, rose, stretched. It had been a workout for him, those five days he chased the boy up and down the empty canyon under his shop. The exhilaration he felt rolled from him in waves. No wonder he had the energy to be coy.

Ichigo huffed a little, absently rubbing his neck. He was sore all over—not that he wanted to show the old man that. "Then why mention it? You're such an asshole. Always talking in riddles."

"It's not a riddle," Urahara said with a smile. "It's just a musing. I do like to ponder things, you know."

"When you're not meddling."

"Who says I can't do both?" The smile widened and Urahara tilted his head just enough to let the light expose his eyes. They were clear, gray and smug. "Ah. Maybe it's nothing." He stood, raised Benhime. "Shall we start again, Kurosaki-kun?"

_Smug _is just the right word for Urahara Kisuke, Ichigo thinks to himself as he stares at the mask. The mask that is inside him, worn by a form that is _him_ but not _himself_. The hollow that Urahara intentionally created.

His hollow self digs a sandaled toe into the dirt and crouches, preparing to leap.

As Ichigo launches himself at that other form, he chides himself for ever dismissing the idea that he'd never see that mask again, and that it wasn't just a trivial thing Urahara wanted to pick at. After all, a loaded gun introduced in the first act of a play must ultimately be used.

* * *

**A/N:** You know, there's not enough here to even consider it a brain fart. Perhaps it's a burp? Anyone who is a little confused should Google the term _Chekhov's Gun._


	46. The Quiz

"Blarg," Ichigo says, collapsing onto his bed in an ungraceful, unceremonious heap, "I iz ded." It would be cute as hell if anyone but him were saying it. But as it is, she chooses to humor him. He's had a hard day. Out of the house for an early lab that lasts three hours, she understands, and two other hour and a half classes after. Three hours of work-study at the cafeteria, dishes and floors. Then back home to help Yuzu with the chores and have dinner with his family (once a week, as stipulated as a condition of his being allowed to move out, she understands.) And of course, since he only gets good food on the days that either he visits home or Sado has a chance to cook, he's stuffed himself.

Rukia tilts her head. _This guy. . ._

Blows all of his energy on the task at hand. Always. Even if it doesn't leave any for the shinigami who re-arranged her schedule and lied in some places to important people to steal this little bit of time to see him. Lately he's too tired to do. . . anything. And he is too much of a gentleman, too. He always stops before things get too heated. His restraint is both admirable and frustrating. And a little scary. Neither of them are exactly novices when it comes to _that_. But for some reason, he has decided to take the scenic route with her. Sometimes she catches herself wondering why he even bothers. But she knew, from the beginning, it would be like this. She has to accept either it, or its unsavory alternative—life without him. This uncommunicative, scowling little monster. _Ugh_. She's disgusted herself. She settles onto the floor and dumps out his bag. Three heavy texts. Two pre-med. The other literature. She eyes the lit book with distaste and is reaching for the biology book when a piece of notebook paper catches her eye. She snaps it up without a second thought and skims it.

**This is a purity test**, it howls in thick print. It is written in permanent marker, and the answers are there. Her eyes narrow as she recognizes his neat scrawl.

**1. What is your name? ** _Kurosaki Ichigo_

**2. What is your age?** _Nineteen._

**3. Who gave you this test? ** _Kojima Mizuiro._

**4. Are you dating someone right now?**

Rukia steals a glance at the boy. Man, really. It's been four years already and the time makes itself known in a red stubble on his chin. Which does not, in any way, shape or form, explain why he would take the time to complete this clearly middle-school level questionnaire. She looks back at the paper with disdain. Thirteen more questions, each one with a longer answer than the last. Okay, maybe it isn't so middle-school. Definitely high school.

**4. Are you dating someone right now?** _Yes._

**5. Is this the first time you've had a significant other?** _No._

**6. Do you consider yourself sexually experienced?** _No_.

Damn straight, she thought.

**7. How many SO's have you had?** _Two._

**8. Have you ever had sex?**

Rukia frowns. Is this the kind of quiz you get in college? Could you get a bad grade if the answers were unsatisfactory? And what qualifies as satisfactory? And is Kojima supposed to be a _teacher?_

**8. Have you ever had sex?** _Yes._

**9. If you answered "yes" to the last question, was it with your current SO if you have one?** _No_.

**10. If it was not with your current SO, why has the relationship not been consummated? ** _Are you fucking kidding me? As if I'd answer that. None of your damn business._

**11. If you refuse to answer the question above, then why the fuck are you taking this test? I bet you won't even hand it it, will you, Kurosaki**? _Kiss my ass, pervert._

**12. If you have not consummated your relationship with your current SO, could it possibly be because you're afraid of boobies**? _Not really. She's kinda flat._

She swiveled to glare at the bed and the form on it. Ass. As if she's even let him look at them. She considers setting the bed on fire with him in it but briefly. Then she turns back to the paper.

**13. Are you in love?** _Yes._

**14. Why?** _Because she's strong and brave and sometimes she's even funny. She doesn't ask stupid questions, either. She does cute things from time to time but mostly she's solid and serious. She's saved my life more than once._

She can feel the little smile coming to her lips. Of course she knows this already. But he's never told her, not in words. The smile only grows wider as the paragraph goes on, the script becoming heavier and messier.

**15. Is it true love?**

The answer has been crossed out. And scribbled on. No response has been put in its place. There are other questions. Sighing, she folds the paper and slides it back into his bag, but only after writing something on it of her own. Then she rises and steps quietly over to the bed. Nudges him a little.

"Nng," he groans a little.

"Scoot over," she says, and he obeys, stretching out an arm that curls over her shoulder as he rolls back over to burrow his stubbly chin in her neck. She's not sleepy, but closes her eyes just the same. This is why she is in love. These moments in silence where she can simply breathe in his scent and wonder when he's going to shave, although the five o'clock shadow is comely in an alarming way. He sees her as she is, knows her, and still does not hesitate to admit he loves her. Even if it's on a sheet of paper he has no intention of returning to the interested party who gave it to him.

She will never know it for certain, but she is right about him never turning in the test. He hadn't intended to even fill it out; it came in unexpectedly useful in clearing his mind of thoughts of the chemicals released during decomposition and some nightmare American author named Nathaniel Hawthorne. And he been honest, all the way to the last question, which he had answered immediately and without thinking: _ I hope so. _And, examining it, crossed it out. He would have ripped up the paper if he'd thought of it.

He is as sure of himself as he thinks he can be. He is just unsure of her, her tendency not to need him. She is always patient, never demanded anything. As if she is just pleasantly spending time with him, and it really will eventually mean nothing to her. He is unsure of her. And a little scared that the day will come that she's bored with him and his lack of time for her. And walk away. He knows this is why he has hesitated, no matter how riled up he was, to go too far with the touching. Kissing has sustained him this far out of necessity. Because he won't be able to turn back once he's crossed that bridge. Because when she leaves him, it'll just make it hurt more. He is unsure of her true feelings. He knows she cares. He just doesn't know _how_ much, or in _what way_.

That is, until he sees that the answer to the last question has been answered. Complete with a smiling bunny head. _It is for me._

This is when he decides to keep the paper. He never shows it to her, never asks her if she's seen it. She never mentions it either.

But shortly after they have both looked at the test, the answer to question number nine becomes a lie.


	47. Homophony

A good song, to him, is much like a scalpel. It will cut through skin and bone and lay your heart bare and open to take it in; the petty nitpicking of your brain has no chance to censor it. This is why, he thinks, Rukia has a theme. Steady as a drum, low, melodic, and melancholy at times.

He imagines her marching forward like a conquering army. Better yet, at the head of it. Her flag is violet and the wind makes it snap and ripple. She carries the flagstaff in front of her, her intent is to drive it into the earth of his skin: This territory must be, _will be_ hers. Her face is grim and she will not ride a horse; she will not be carried. Her feet must touch the ground because to fly is to lose all sense of reason; she never wants to fall. This is her biggest flaw. Her ebony wings are weak from inactivity. She may not be able to fly now, even if she wanted. But, he thinks, maybe that's okay . He can't fly either. Better that they can console each other on the earth, bodies warming to and for each other. _Is this lust?_

_I am an untold story,_ his heart tells her. _Buried beneath tomes of war and skill and duty, perhaps I have not yet seen the light of day. Would you care to peruse me? _ And she'll snatch the crisp clean thing up, leaf through the pages, inhaling the sweet smell of something new and fresh. She'll burrow under every paragraph, rest in the white spaces, weave herself in the crevice between the binding and the spine. She'll resurface with traces of him smudging her face and embedded under her fingernails. This is how he takes her in. She just can't put the book down; it'll lay still on her chest and rise and fall with every breath, and not be shaken away when she trembles in her sleep. _Kaien—you did this to me too, when I didn't know what it really meant._

He knows little of Shiba Kaien but he hates him. _That bastard with my face—caused you grief._ But he is thankful. _That bastard made my face a thing that could catch your shielded eye._

She hates herself for the death of two things. Kaien as he was. Ichigo as he was. Kaien at least had the decency not to come back. But that damned Ichigo—she'll never be free of him. Not because she doesn't want to be. But because she _can't_ be. Ever. Perhaps this is what causes the compulsion to seek him out if it's been too long since she's heard his voice or ogled his bright hair. She is little more than a moth attracted to his blinding aura.

When she is back his eyes never leave her for very long. It's not that he worries that she'll disappear when out of his view. He's used to that now. But sometimes, when she is wide open, he can see through her. When her guard is down, there is someone in her shoes that rarely is visible. The laughing one. The smirk with only a hint of mischief. It's like a melody to him, the light she exudes, it makes him want to smile and cry at the same time. He's sure he cannot explain the feeling, a swelling like his heart might burst from the feel of it. He only knows he has been exposed to something rare and precious. Like a really good song.

* * *

**A/N:** Yes, boys and girls, Kilonji has sank into weird-mood land.


End file.
